


Evergreen

by Darling_Jack



Series: Facing West [3]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Asexual Arthur, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, No Smut, Platonic Romance, Pre-Canon, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Whump, Young Arthur Morgan, Young Dutch van der Linde, Young Hosea Matthews
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 36,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28845528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darling_Jack/pseuds/Darling_Jack
Summary: Hosea’s gone. Left to their own devices in the wilds of Wyoming, Dutch and Arthur do their damnedest to get themselves killed.(A look back at the Van der Linde gang before there was much of a gang at all)[This is a prequel to Undone; you don’t have to read Undone to read this, but it’d sure be nice if you did ♡]
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Dutch van der Linde, Arthur Morgan/Dutch van der Linde
Series: Facing West [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1980926
Comments: 207
Kudos: 86





	1. Chapter I: Winter

**1877**

It was like traveling with a ghost. 

He followed them like a shadow, always within view but never within reach. 

Even after months of traversing the countryside together, months of Dutch trying to bring him just a step closer, trying to coax some iota of trust from the kid, they had made no progress. Every morning they would wake thinking he had gone, taken off during the night, only for him to reappear once breakfast was cooked. They’d leave him to pick at the leftovers, as he kid staunchly refused any plate handed his way. Hosea had started cooking extra, to ensure there was enough. To Dutch, it felt as though they were leaving scraps behind for a mangy dog. 

He was a skimpy little thing. More bone than skin; rank and filthy. Dutch had tried to give him better clothes once; the boy was still wrapped in ratty, grimy garb he had taken off the street, occasionally interspersed with an old shirt Hosea had quite literally forced upon him. His offer was quietly declined, the clothes left wrapped in paper from the shop. In fact the only reaction he got— the only reaction he _ever_ got— was violent and loud, the moment he reached to pull the worn hat from his head. Dutch had meant it as a playful gesture; the kid had seen it differently, scrambling back as though Dutch were going to burn him. His reaction was volatile enough to startle Dutch into keeping his distance for days after. 

Dutch tried. He failed. He wasn't sure why, but he wanted nothing more than to connect with him. There was something in his eyes, a sort of spark he couldn't ignore— a pain he wanted to heal, or at least lessen if he could. Talking did nothing— the boy wouldn't respond. Or couldn't. That was always a possibility. He hadn’t quite worked out which. The most he’d heard since they’d taken him in was the odd string of curses hissed at anyone who came too close. Lord only knows where he had been, the things he’d seen, the things he’d done.

His life before them was something awful, if those nightmares the kid suffered were any indication. More than once Dutch had been woken in the night to his cries. He was stuck watching from a distance, unable to help. Dutch was wholly unsure of how he _could_ help, seeing as he still had no name to call to soothe the boy’s panic. He had settled on 'kid'. 

Hosea put up with it, but that was about all. He might not have patience for the kid, but Dutch felt something pull in his chest. Something that refused to let him go. There was something about this kid that sat funny with him; he didn’t recognize it until he brought the boy his dinner and found himself at the business end of one of Hosea’s old revolvers; he must’ve snuck it from his saddlebags when they weren't watching. 

Dutch stared at the barrel of the revolver; the gun shook terribly in the boy’s grasp. His chest heaved and shuddered as tears rolled down his cheeks.

“What you want from me?” he hissed, trying his damndest to look menacing despite his slight stature. It was almost cute. Dutch was more taken aback by the fact that these were the first words the boy had spoken, and by far the closest he had come to either of them in weeks. 

“You planning to use that thing, kid?” Dutch asked, voice steady, “Or is it just for show?”

“T-thought you was j-just stupid, thought I could… thought I could… I was gonna _rob_ you. But you- why you being nice?”

Nice? That was one accusation Dutch had never faced in his life. If this— if leaving him scraps and avoiding him otherwise, if offering the bare minimum of respect and decency— was nice, if this is what they boy considered kind, he’d hate to see what the boy thought was cruel.

“You can either pull that trigger or put the gun down.”

He sucked in a shuddering breath, voice hitched and small, “Y-you killed him.”

“... Killed a lot of folk.”

“My pa,” his teeth were grit together tight, “Y-you killed my pa, I seen it, I- I-”

And suddenly, Dutch realized why the boy’s hat looked so hauntingly familiar.

“... Your pa was an awful man,” He chose his words carefully, as one tended to do when staring down the barrel of a gun, “If you’re fixing to kill me for doin the world a favor and ridding it of that scum, I suggest you do it quick. But I’ll tell you what, you put that gun down and I won’t say nothin’ about it. We can pretend none of this happened.”

The barrel wavered yet again in the boy’s grasp. In the next moment it clattered to the dirt, and he collapsed hard into himself, sobbing and wailing. Dutch gathered the boy up in his arms, holding him tight. The kid melted into him, hands buried into his shirt, face tucked into the crook of his neck. 

“It’s okay, kid…” Dutch murmured into his hair, “You’re okay.”

Between sobs, a broken mumble, a single word that Dutch had been waiting for for these long months, “A-Arthur…” 

Arthur, then. Arthur Morgan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Evergreen! Only took, what, three months....? 
> 
> Buckle your seatbelts kiddos, because this is a long one. Figured I'd start you off with a little flashback to the very early days of the gang, but don't worry! We'll kick off the main story in the next chapter. Just like Undone, I'll be posting Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays! 
> 
> See you Thursday, my dears! ♡


	2. I. II

**1884**

He left. 

After all the work, after all their struggling and hurting and planning, _he fucking left._ He hadn’t even given any warning; not that Dutch needed it. He’d seen the signs.

_“You would’ve tried to stop me, Dutch,”_ Hosea bit, sat high atop his mare- his quite literal high horse; if Dutch weren’t roiling with a dry, burning anger, he might have found that somewhat amusing. But by then, by the time Hosea had admitted his justification for leaving without a single parting word, he was wrong. By the time Dutch knew he was leaving he wanted him gone; he wished the man the worst and cursed him for all he was worth, and Hosea _fucking left._

Dutch threw back a shot, then another, digging through the quarters in his pocket. 

_“A civilized life”_ Hosea had said, as if it made any of this better. As if that word, _‘civilized’,_ offered any more consolation, as if that word in and of itself were an excuse that Dutch was meant to blindly accept.

As if that word, _‘civilized’,_ weren’t a blatant slap in the face, a dismissal of every goddamned thing they had been working for, a callous _disregard_ for that which they had so carefully cultivated over the past years together. As if it weren’t a thinly veiled criticism of _everything_ Dutch had come to stand for, everything they _fought_ for, everything they _bled_ for. A criticism of Dutch; proof that the wonderful things he had offered, the life they had built with each other, simply wasn’t enough. 

But he didn’t need Hosea.

Despite the man’s angered insistence to the contrary, despite his hurried words, happily laying out all of Dutch’s faults plainly before him, _he didn’t need Hosea._ He got along just fine before him, and would surely continue to thrive without Hosea’s constant henpecking and grousing. 

He’d be fine.

_They’d_ be fine.

Hosea left Arthur too. That more than anything got under Dutch’s skin. He had intended to slip away without a word to either of them, leaving Dutch with the boy they both had spent these seven long years crafting into a young man in favor of some piece of ass he’d only known for less than half of that. He didn’t even bother to wait until Arthur had returned from his trip to town, too cowardly to face the kid no doubt. 

Dutch threw back another shot. With a wearied sigh, he turned away from the bar, scanning the saloon for any sign of Arthur. The patrons, rowdy and raucous, whipped into a frenzy as often was the case when Arthur was involved, were indistinguishable from one another, one big, writhing mob, the result of too much whiskey or not enough. 

Nevertheless a group of them had gathered, stuck fast around a small table in the corner, hollering and shouting and carrying on. 

Dutch pushed his way through the crowd, the sound of Arthur’s cackling laughter drawing him in. There he sat, absolutely beaming, cheeks flush and hand locked into another man’s in a vicious bout of armwrestling. 

“Dutch!” he shouted, eyes lighting up brilliantly. Dutch couldn’t help but melt at the warmth that spread like wildfire across the younger man’s face. He matched it with the slightest of frowns.

Dutch laid his hands on Arthur’s shoulders, squeezing slightly, “What’s going on here?”

“Just me emptying the pockets of damn near every wannabe strongman in the joint. Can you believe the shit they pass off as men in these backwater nothin towns these days?” Arthur’s voice was strained with effort, but light nonetheless. Dutch could feel it in his shoulders, could see the effort and fight in the man in the way his empty hand curled tightly against the table. Arthur’s freckled cheeks were flushed red, no doubt drink and exertion in equal measure. His opponent was too focused on attempting to best Arthur that he hadn’t even looked up to acknowledge Dutch’s approach. 

“Well, perhaps it’s best if we showed some measure of mercy to these folks. Let them keep their dignity at least! ‘Sides, we best be headed along anyways, we have got business to attend to.”

Arthur laughed, much to his opponent’s ire. With little trouble, Arthur wrenched his arm and slammed the man’s hand against the tabletop, “Ah, all right… You sure got lucky mister; keep wrestlin’ like that with arms like yours and you’re fixin for a broken bone, I reckon.”

“F-fuck off,” the man panted, “I ain’t done with you yet.”

“Ain’t done with me?” Arthur balked, a smile plain on his face, “Partner, you look about ready to kick the bucket, hell you mean you ain’t done with me? Next time maybe sprout a little muscle fore you start makin’ bets.”

Dutch rolled his eyes, grabbing Arthur’s arm and pulling him along towards the exit. Arthur cackled in return, stumbling over his own feet, perhaps slightly more drunk than Dutch had expected.

Not that he was particularly sober himself .

But maybe one of them should have been, because in the next moment, the man Arthur had been armwrestling called after them.

“You goddamned yella coward! Come back here and face me like a man, you chickenshit son of a bitch!”

A glass bottle shattered on the wall next to Dutch’s head. Arthur straightened in his hold. Had Dutch paid any attention, he might have noticed the tipsy grin drop from Arthur’s face.

Immediately though, it was back as he whirled to face the man.

“You want a rematch?” he asked, pulling free of Dutch’s grasp, and Dutch let him go. He knew Arthur well enough to know what was about to follow. Content to just watch, he crossed his arms over his chest. After all, if the man didn’t want trouble, he shouldn’t have started it. Lord, they did not have the time for it though.

Arthur chortled, the sloppy grin back on his face, a glint in his eye that Dutch hadn’t seen in a long while, “ _Here’s your rematch!”_

The roar of the saloon nearly drowned out the sound of Dutch’s laughter as Arthur hoisted the man into the air and brought him down hard on the floor. The pair grappled for a bit, rolling in the dust and spilled booze as they fought. 

It was a violent bout; messy. With the first blow, he shattered the man’s nose, which erupted into a steady stream of blood. It didn’t end there, and the two bit and gouged for a bit, Arthur laughing like a madman all the while.

But he held back. Dutch could see it. The way he tensed, and tried, and kept glancing back at him as if in reminder.

He was honestly proud.

The last time he’d caught Arthur in the midst of a fight, he and Hosea and given the boy such a talking to— it was nice to see that his words had had some measure of effect on him. Frankly he was pleased to know that Arthur listened to him at all.

“Arthur!” he hollered, “Can we _please_ wrap this up?”

Arthur pinned the man under his weight, subduing him with practiced ease, muscles pulled taught with want for violence and blood. Instead, he stooped low, pulling the man’s bloodied face towards his, “Next time you’re looking to start some shit, best make sure it’s shit you’re willin’ to finish.”

Dutch cackled, wrapping an arm around Arthur’s neck, “I think he’s learned his lesson, ain’t you, friend?”

The man wailed and scrambled to his feet, realizing how soundly he’d been bested— how thoroughly he’d been made a mockery. By the time he got his wits about him well enough to be angry, Dutch and Arthur had long since stumbled off into the bitter Wyoming winter, hooting and hollering all the while, pockets filled with ill-gotten gains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, don't you just love that new-fic smell? 
> 
> This, my dears, is the start of the main run of the fic! For anyone keeping track at home, Arthur is about 21/22 in this one, and Dutch is 27/28. I know I know- Hosea said Arthur was probably too young to remember the year he left with Bessie, but what you're all forgetting is I do what I want ♡♡♡
> 
> Love you all lots! See you on Sunday! ♡


	3. I. III

Split Branch was a logging town, built at the border of a long-since felled forest and populated largely by folk looking for work at nearby ranches. It was far from the smallest place they had stayed, but there simply wasn’t much to the town beyond the saloon, an inn, and a few shops they hadn’t yet bothered to stake out. There was the sheriff’s office, but it was a small, dinky little joint that had just one lonely cell. 

Sure, the place was small, but the areas nearby, built off the backs of the forests destroyed by loggers looking for a quick buck, were rife with opportunity. That was why they had stopped here; why they were still here, despite Arthur’s impatient grumbling. His complaints were routinely waved off by Dutch whenever they were brought up. Despite the bitter chill and thick blanket of snow that covered the small town, it seems the man was desperate to make their time here worthwhile, in one way or another.

And, Dutch being Dutch, he got his way. In a land known for opportunity, sure enough one had all but fallen into their laps one afternoon. Dutch kicked in the door to their shared room at the inn with a letter in hand, startling Arthur out of a nap with that familiar mischievous smile wide on his face, and Arthur felt the smallest flutter of hope.

Hosea leaving set Dutch into a spiral, try as Dutch might to pretend otherwise.  At first, he was so angry, so thoroughly livid and seething, that he damn near dragged Arthur from town to town, starting fights and stealing anything that wasn’t nailed down. It was messy work; far from the elegance the man claimed to require in his jobs. People got hurt. Fires were started, leaving plumes of thick black smoke trailing behind them— a literal wake of destruction. 

Arthur loved it. The excitement, the danger, the feeling of raw, absolute freedom. 

Then one day that anger cooled. Hosea still hadn’t returned. Dutch set aside his rage in place of something bitter and icy; he preferred to mutter discontentedly to himself and rant about Hosea betraying them.  The man had been a mess, a tangled knot of negativity that, honestly, was really fucking bumming him out. He hadn’t taken this whole situation well at all— unsurprising, as Dutch didn’t take  _ anything _ well, but damn was he ever mad. Arthur hadn’t ever seen him this furious for so long and doing such a poor job of hiding it. 

Arthur actually didn’t mind all that much. Without Hosea, he didn’t have to suffer lengthy lectures and endless questions when he continued the life of rampant crime that Dutch had abandoned. Dutch didn't seem to care what he did or where he wandered off too as long as he was easily found. Dutch also didn't press him to read more, and neither did he try to turn every happening into an opportunity for learning. In fact, Dutch was so consumed with himself these days that Arthur was a distant second to his own dissatisfied thoughts. He almost preferred it that way. It harkened back to the days when he was on his own, running wild and unchecked through the streets. Minus the near starving-to-death and constant fear for his own life, of course. 

And he always did like Dutch a little better than Hosea. 

Life with Dutch might have been less stifling, but damn it, was it _boring._ _He_ was boring. At least with Hosea, they were pulling jobs just about every week. Even if he did have to dress up in ridiculous clothes and pretend to be deaf, dumb, or stupid, and even if Hosea had recently developed a habit for painting his face with some of Bessie’s rouge to make him look all the more innocent, at least it was _something_. As humiliating as it often was, he far preferred it to these aimless days meandering from town to town.

Since Dutch’s rampage— which hadn’t lined their pockets all that much— they’d been getting by pickpocketing and placing bets on Arthur beating the tar out of some guy in a saloon… which he didn’t mind, it was certainly more interesting than drinking all day, but he was quickly tiring of small takes and empty purses. Dutch didn’t let him do anything bigger, and the mere suggestion of such earned him a dry and harsh lecture.

Arthur had developed a new game for himself, a game he liked to call  _ ‘how much can I get away with?’  _ to keep himself entertained. The rules were quite simple: he dutifully acquiesced to whatever instinct popped into his head in the hopes that something might spark a reaction. Nothing ever did though and that, too, became boring with time. The best he could manage was to get Dutch drunk enough that he’d rant about Hosea and exactly how well they could fare without him. On occasion, he could wrench free a half-hearted speech about responsibility, or duty, or loyalty, or some shit. But again, that grew dull after the first dozen times. 

He and Dutch shared a room at the inn, ate most of their meals together, and quietly plotted their next steps hunched over the small end table in their room, but God, if Arthur didn’t have to listen to his complaining it was almost as if Dutch weren’t there at all. 

This sad, dull man moping around all day, dragging his feet, muttering about abandonment? Offering nothing more by way of companionship than the occasional dirty look and tired speech when Arthur stepped out of line? This wasn’t what he’d anticipated. Dutch didn’t want to do  _ anything _ ; he barely paid Arthur any mind, and had no interest in any sort of adventure. Arthur tried to spark up conversations while out on the road, only to receive non-committal grunts and groans in response.

Out of reflex, and maybe frustration, Arthur once snapped at him to stop grunting like a damn animal and use his goddamned words; a sentiment he’d lifted off of Dutch himself. Lord, the glower he received in response was enough to smother any further attempts at conversation. 

But all those hours sitting in silence, stalking the streets or exploring the snow-covered wilderness, gave him time to think; to plan a way to break Dutch out of this rut and drag him back to reality. 

After all, they hadn’t worked an  _ actual _ job since Hosea left. 

And maybe, just maybe, that is what Dutch needed to get them back in the game. Prove to the man that they really didn't need Hosea— that they could manage more than random crimes sprung in the heat of the moment. That they were just fine, the two of them. That the two of them was all that ever was needed. Something about that warmed in his stomach.

Hesitant as he was to admit it, Arthur missed the old Dutch. The brilliant, care-free charismatic troublemaker who one put a beehive through someone’s window; the one who dared Arthur to drink a whole bottle of whiskey in one go, despite Arthur having been 16 and sober of anything stronger than beer since his daddy died. He missed the Dutch who sat him down and taught him to scribble swears and urged him to practice on Grimshaw’s daily paper and then scooped him up to spare him her wooden spoon. 

The Dutch who just kicked in the door and vibrantly chattered about this opportunity, rousing Arthur’s interest and washing away each painful moment of the past months.

But the excitement died quick when Dutch, with that too-bright smile of his, exclaimed:

“It’s from Odhran.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woof, exposition. Here's a little taste of what all these boys have been up to since Hosea left! Is anyone surprised they got into trouble? 
> 
> Arthur being a young adult is entirely fed up with having to be an actual adult, Dutch has decided to stew and complain that he didn't get his way, and basically nobody's happy. All he wants is some attention, damn it! 
> 
> My dears, just because today is rainy and cold doesn't mean tomorrow will be. Even if the forecast calls for it. 
> 
> See you all next time, little algae blooms! Chapter 4 goes up on Tuesday! ♡ ♡ ♡


	4. I. IV

Odhran O’Driscoll.

Arthur felt a wave of nausea rise at the name. He should’ve guessed. 

All his fervent wishing for  _ something _ to happen. For anything that could break through the monotony, or tear Dutch from his thoughts, and it amounted to Odhran O- _ fucking _ -Driscoll. 

“It's a good one, Arthur. This is...this is it. A fine take; we couldn't ask for a better opportunity.” Dutch thrust the letter his way, but Arthur wasn’t keen on reading its contents, though he took it anyway.

“I ain’t workin’ with no goddamned O’Driscolls.”

The words had been scribbled in haste, sloppy and tilted, all running together. Something about a stagecoach, loaded and ripe for plucking— a time, a meeting place, and that’s it. No details, no information, no plan. Exactly what he’d come to expect from the O’Driscolls. 

Hosea had warned him about them; the O’Driscolls were the worst kind of gang, and those two in charge were the worst kind of men. Cruel, hungry, and stupid; bound to get them killed sooner or later. Hosea detested them with everything he had.Hell, Dutch’s insistence on working with them led to plenty of fights between the two. 

Arthur, of course, had formed his own opinion.

And he fucking  _ hated _ the O’Driscolls. The gang was about thirty strong— thirty foolish drunkards with more bullets than sense. They had a habit of mucking up plans and acting before thinking— assuming they even made it to the job. Half the time, they were too drunk to even show up. 

Odhran was  _ fine _ , despite Hosea’s lectures warning otherwise; quiet and reclusive, the most sober of the bunch. He rarely saw the man, and the few times he had, he found him at worst unsettling. But where Odhran went, Colm followed, and Colm was wiry with a loud mouth and a hot temper. The very definition of all bark, no bite. A slimy excuse of a man looking to seem bigger and badder than he was, intent to do so through wanton cruelty. He made Arthur’s skin crawl. 

Arthur hated Colm; he didn’t need Hosea to tell him what a snake the man was. Of course, Dutch and Colm got on like a house on fire, only twice as dangerous. When they got together they were damn near inseparable, attached at the hip, spouting off about whatever bullshit came to mind that they thought might impress the other. They rode together, they fought together; whenever the O’Driscolls were around, Arthur suddenly stopped being an equal and instead became a lackey, relegated to the literal unwashed masses of the O’Driscoll ranks. 

But damn it, Dutch looked so _ happy. _

And they hadn’t worked a solid job in a while; certainly not a stage.

Dutch and Arthur could manage smaller takes on their own, sure, and Hosea often shifted the burdens of planning onto Dutch where he could, willing him to learn some measure of leadership and responsibility to match his incorrigible ego, but a coach? Stagecoaches were dangerous.

Unpredictable. 

Or so Hosea always said. Arthur, though, had yet to meet a stage he couldn’t handle. Most times, he could pull a gun and they were fool enough to give in without a fight, far more keen to keep their lives than their valuables. Arthur could yell and put on a nasty front without so much as breaking a sweat. And if it came down to it, beating someone half-stupid didn't bother him in the least. Hell, he did that for fun on occasion. 

Yet still something about this unsettled him. 

“You’re sure about this?”

Dutch glanced over at him briefly, “Aren’t you?”

_ “Hell no!” _

“Colm always has good jobs, and it seems he’s taking point on this. Adds a few days onto our trip, sure, but what’s a few days in the face of a nice hefty take? ”

He’d honestly forgotten they were headed anywhere at all; that Split Branch, and every nothing town like it, was simply a stop on some journey, a step in a plan Dutch had crafted carefully. They’d set out for Evergreen, Wyoming a week after Hosea left, not that either of them particularly minded how long it took to get there. It was Dutch’s idea, after all/ Arthur was honestly eager for any reason not to go. 

But that didn’t matter right now. 

“Just ain’t sure I trust them is all.” 

“You ain’t gotta trust them. Just trust me. They just want to talk for now. If it looks like it’s too much trouble, we’ll leave.” 

“Sure, but… Colm is…”

“You let me worry about Colm. Just keep yourself out of trouble— if this works out, we might have an in for some nice takes without having to do any legwork. Easy pickings. Are you with me?” 

“I… I guess.”

They left Split Branch that same hour, setting off for Bulrush, a town a bit more than a day’s ride south. Dutch read the letter over thrice more, as if trying to tease out any secret meanings from the scrawled message. He was emboldened, bolstered by the opportunity, an entirely different man than he had been that same morning. 

And Arthur was left with his thoughts.

Not one single job went to plan when O’Driscolls were involved.

The last job, which they truly had meant to be the _ last _ , involved hitting an auction house in Colorado. Damn near everything that could go wrong certainly did; Hosea ended up with a broken wrist, they had to break Susan out of jail, the cops were damn well waiting for them, and Arthur got lost for three whole days. 

Blood was spilled. 

Dutch ended up shooting an bystander in the thigh. Despite his bravado, assuring the gang he’d make up for it by donating more of the take than usual, they all saw how it weighed on him. For all his bluster, Dutch didn’t like hurting people. Hell, Arthur had only seen him kill twice since they started running together, and neither situation offered much of a choice. The man wasn’t keen on violence, and it showed. 

They did leave with nearly five hundred dollars, after all was said and done, but there were some things even the lull of money couldn’t erase.

Colm was different though. The man killed without thought, maimed without remorse. That’s not what bothered Arthur the most though— he often did the same. Not killing, not unless he had to, which he only rarely did, but quietly letting himself slip into that same kind of blinding rage, carefully indulging only when Dutch and Hosea had their backs turned. He, like Colm, found himself enjoying it most days.

But Arthur had the decency to be ashamed.

There was something vile about the man, something Dutch reflected with ease whenever the two were around each other. Dutch always rode up front with Colm, sharing crude remarks and sly looks. Often they’d veer off on their own to scout ahead; to plot and scheme away from prying ears. Arthur saw the sidelong glances. The quieted laughter. The lingering touches— all innocent enough on their own, but together? The theater of it all as those two only worsened one another? It made his skin crawl. 

Even his vicious, unthining nature could be forgiven if the man weren’t so goddamned _ slimy _ . He was always looking for someone to screw over without mind to whom it may be. So long as he ended up even slightly ahead, he would surely stab his own mother in the back with no small amount of enthusiasm.

Arthur knew that’d be them, sooner or later. The minute Dutch stopped being useful they’d be fodder. Those brief touches and whispered plots would stop, replaced with a knife in Dutch’s back. 

Hosea had, long ago, forced Dutch to acquiesce— to admit their time with the O’Driscolls was over, and swear he’d never pull them along on some job with the barbarians again. It had been an awful fight, one Arthur was frankly relieved to hear because eventually Dutch gave in. 

But now Hosea wasn’t here and their argument was forgotten. Arthur’s chest tightened at the warring emotions— on the one hand, he would give his damn arm to never have to see those fuckers again. On the other, Dutch finally seemed bright and cheerful for the first time in ages, chattering on about the job as they rode. 

Or he had been. Arthur pulled away from his thoughts to find Dutch staring at him, a frown curled over his lips— a mirror of Arthur’s own scowl, whether he realized it or not.

“You’re awful quiet. What is it now?”

“Ain’t nothin, Dutch,” Arthur grumbled, trying to brush away the man’s concern, “Just cold.”

Dutch was no fool though. He could read Arthur like nobody else, and slowed Duke until he was side by side with Arthur’s steed. Atticus tossed his head at the proximity, stamping his feet when Duke’s flank brushed against his.

“What?” Dutch demanded, more insistent, his sneer only deepening. 

“... I ain’t sure we should do this.”

“This  _ again? _ ”

Arthur felt the tension rise between them. With a hearty eye-roll, Dutch stalked ahead, urging Duke into a canter. Arthur damn near kicked himself; the man had again fallen into himself, thoroughly soured.

“Son of a bitch, I just— ” he felt his words falter. He just what? Colm hadn't given them any reason to not trust him, nor dislike him quite as much as he did. The man, while uncouth, always delivered, that much was true. There was always a take at the end. 

He just didn’t like the man. Not his actions, not his plans, not his personality, not the way he always had an eye on Dutch, waiting for the man to slip up. 

And maybe he was bitter. One letter from the O’Driscolls did what Arthur had been trying to do for weeks. Dutch was himself again, if only for a moment before Arthur again fouled his mood. He kicked Atticus to a quicker pace, catching up with Dutch. 

Because despite his reservations, he just wanted Dutch to be _ happy _ and if running with Colm was enough to bolster the man's spirits...then damn it. That's what he would do.

“I’m sorry, Dutch,” he mumbled, “I just… Y’all got a tendency to get stupid when you’re together. Don’t like seeing you that way is all. Pair of you running off, causing trouble...”

A small grin crept over Dutch’s features.

“Arthur, are you jealous?”

_ “Jealous?”  _ Arthur sputtered, “Like hell I am!”

The blush that burned in Arthur’s cheeks, thankfully disguised by the cherry red left there by the icy wind, remained until long after they had set their camp in the woods that night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Odhran O'Driscoll! The older brother of our dearest, darling Colm! Hopefully this sort of gives y'all some kind of idea of where this fic is headed ;) I swear it picks up in just a little bit, just hang on while we drag through the exposition ♡
> 
> My darling little snowdrifts, who knows what beauty you're hiding in your depths! Could be anything! The world will watch with great interest as you uncover your purpose! ♡
> 
> Or at least, I will! Love you all, dears! See you Thursday! ♡♡♡♡


	5. I. V

**1877**

The streets were unforgiving. 

He’d learned that early on. 

From the moment he sat there, alone, watching people weave wide circles around the slowly-drying pool of his pa’s blood, he knew that. From the moment his pa was paraded out like a prized hog fixed for slaughter and nobody so much as batted an eye, he knew that. 

Hell, from the moment he was born into a world that didn’t want him, he knew that.

He could still, with seemingly zero prompting, recall every gruesome detail, every lingering second of that night. 

He didn’t recognize the man. This wasn’t unusual; his father kept less than savory company, and Arthur wasn’t welcome to interact with any of them, not without receiving a sharp smack for any errant eye contact or a belt for a stray word. 

But the man showed up in the dead of night. Arthur didn’t see him until after he’d beaten his pa black and blue and forced that beast of a man into lowly submission. 

And even then, his silhouette was obscured so greatly by the flames that swallowed their little house that Arthur would have _sworn_ it was the devil himself that had done it. 

By the time he showed up in town, his few remaining memories of his mother stashed in the woods a ways off, that man, that _devil_ , already had his father on his knees, making a spectacle of the only family he had left in a town that couldn’t have cared less. 

He got what was coming to him; perhaps some small part of Arthur wished he had been the one to give it to him. His father was a bastard. It's all he ever was, and all he ever would be. He was violent, dumb, and loud; a coward in every sense, more bark than bite, keen to hide behind a curled fist or a thrown glass rather than step up and face folk. Half the time, Arthur didn’t even deserve it, least not as far as he could tell. Another, smaller part just wanted his dad back. He lost his family and his home to the cruelty of one man as punishment for the cruelty of another. 

Maybe that was some kind of justice or maybe, simply an allowance for cruelty to continue. 

He tried to stay. He did. But the kindness of strangers was well exhausted for the Morgans. The doctor turned him away, not looking for trouble. The church, the neighbors, the school; none of them had anything to offer. The law, however, seemed keen on pinning Lyle’s crimes on someone, driving Arthur to do one of the few things his father had taught him.

He ran.

All of eleven, Arthur Morgan took to the streets, stalking unnoticed through towns that hated him for simply existing. And lord did he hate them right back. He travelled when the weather was good, on his feet when he could or perched atop a stolen horse the few times he’d been bold enough to snag one. 

He’d left the boomtown and his father’s grave far behind him, hoping distance might help to soothe the wounds dug into him by that night.

It didn’t. 

In the interest of survival, he’d settled into a bustling town in the southwest of Montana, searching for anyone who might have pity for the boy whose father was killed by the devil. 

Now, though, he had long since outgrown any need for pity. Two years, alone, surviving the harsh shifts of seasons, had hardened him into something. The cowardly Morgan blood that had been bred into him was chased away, replaced with something meaner; colder. Bitter. 

The blisters on his hands and arms had healed by now, barely scars dappled on his skin, a permanent reminder of that night. He still wore the same singed clothing and hadn’t quite managed to clean the soot from the frame of his mother’s photograph, but he was alive, and damn it he was going to stay that way until each and every one of these vile towns paid for their casual disregard. 

Vengeance would wait, though. Survival came first.

He’d learned how to get food; who to ask, and how, with what sob story to appeal to what minimal humanity he could wrench out of them. He’d learned to watch as people went about their day, to figure out when it was safe to duck out of the alleys and into empty shops and homes, and what he could take without getting caught. He learned how to steal; how to pick pockets, and lift wallets without drawing attention. 

He learned all of this the hardest ways imaginable; starvation, beatings, and hours upon hours spent sitting in a jail cell. 

He also learned how to fight.

Barely thirteen, there wasn’t much to him but bone and gristle. He couldn’t hold his own in a fair fight so he learned how to fight dirty. Spitting, biting, clenching needles in his fist, whatever it took.

He never did learn to sleep, though. When he laid down his head all that remained was the face of his pa as they made eye contact on that street. All he could hear was _his_ voice, loud and booming, until it suddenly wasn’t. Until the devil leaned in close and whispered those horrible words into his father’s ear, a final message from a world that had always hated the both of them:

_“Smile, cowboy.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning, sweet peas! You didn't think I'd leave y'all with just ONE flashback chapter, all sad and lonely at the very beginning, did you? There's actually eight! They all focus on the first days of the gang and the very first meetings of Dutch and Arthur. They'll be peppered in here and there, so keep your eyes peeled! ♡
> 
> Thank you for dropping by, lovelies, and I'll see you on Sunday! ♡♡♡


	6. I. VI

He tore free from the nightmare with a violent start, feeling as though his ribs were crushed in an iron grip. His breath thundered, but he couldn’t force himself to suck in more than a noisy, shallow gasp, his throat burning and tight. The bitter chill of morning bit at him, limbs and lungs both frozen. Unable to move, unable to breathe. Tears burned in his eyes and, damn it, he cursed every single one of them

Images of devils and hellfire wreaked havoc in his mind, playing on repeat, drowning him further in these feelings that had consumed him so thoroughly. He could still feel it— hands on him, grabbing, tearing, those angry words sharp in his ear and hot, foul breath on his cheek. He couldn't help the stuttered sob that broke free. 

Damn it. He thought he was getting better. Thought that he was over all these...these... _things_.

_Episodes,_ Dutch called them, as though that made them tolerable. As though it weren’t just Arthur crumbled in a heap, sobbing and terrified over nothing.

He’d suffered them since he was a boy.

Thought for a time there was something wrong with him. That he, and he alone, suffered needlessly through whatever the hell these were. Some punishment, no doubt, for something he'd fucked up at one time or another. He tried, damn it all did he ever _try_ to keep them hidden, to keep the others from finding out. 

It hadn't lasted long. 

He could well remember his cheeks burning red as he huddled away from them, trying to hide. To disappear. To bury himself deep underground where he wouldn't have to answer for his faults. 

There was shame in that. 

Hope, too, however small and unseen. Because Dutch had come for him. 

Dutch had pulled him out from those depths. He had sat with him; reminded him to breathe. He got them too, it seemed— less frequently, less violently, but still the same. Knowing that helped; a godsend, really. Dutch understanding what he was going through. Arthur for once feeling as though he wasn't somehow broken. 

Dutch knew how to coax him out of the worst of it. He knew how to handle it, more or less, where others would simply balk. He knew when to keep his distance, when to draw in close and wrap Arthur in his arms, when to talk, and when to simply let the silence sit between them. It had been trial and error for the both of them, but they managed.

He still hated it. Hated looking weak, hated having to rely so heavily on Dutch, as if Dutch weren’t the one to give him the damn things in the first place. He never had them before Dutch swept into his life, never had them before his pa died, never—

Never this bad. 

Arthur curled in on himself, trying so, so hard to quiet his noisy gasps; to ease the aches in his muscles, to stop being such a coward and get to his feet. _Never this bad._

Or so he liked to think; he couldn’t remember exactly. These childish fits, remnants of horrors beyond his comprehension long behind him. The days he’d spend scared stiff by his own shadow, terrified by every stray word and too-quick movement, punctuated by this crescendo of panic and fear that seemed to grip him out of nowhere every so often. A stark, blatant reminder that echoed clearly in his father’s voice: _you’re a_ _goddamned_ _coward, Arthur._

He remembered, though not with any particular clarity, the nights he spent weathering his father’s rage; every drunken blow, demanding he man the fuck up and stop being such a pussy, warning him of what might happen if he didn’t stop his sniveling. Reminding him that he was nothing but a damn _coward._

He had been. Lord, he had been. But he wasn’t. Not any more. Or at least, he wasn’t supposed to be, and those drunken tirades still played over in his skull every goddamned time he felt the slightest twinge of apprehension, and that potent fear still lingered; the fear that someone might notice, and they’d see him for what he really was.

Dutch was different though. He knew that, despite the whispers suggesting otherwise. Dutch had always, without fail, gathered Arthur up into his arms and assured him that everything would be all right.

_“ Get over it, ”_ his pa would bark.

_“ _Get through it,”_ _Dutch would offer, gently, softly. Sternly reminding him that there wasn’t a single thing wrong with being upset, as if that could ever undo years of Lyle Morgan saying otherwise.

Sometimes those voices spoke at once, crowding in his head. Other times, it was quiet, an undefined symphony of terror coursing through him unabated.

But they were getting _better_. He could handle shouts and screams. He no longer jumped out of his skin when Hosea laid a soft hand on his shoulder or Dutch pulled him into a bear hug without warning. It’d been months since he’d last suffered one of these goddamned episodes, much less a nightmare so horribly vivid, and that had been after a particularly nasty encounter with a man who looked a little too similar to Lyle.

And now here he was, panicking for no good goddamned reason at all. Arthur curled in on himself, trying to quiet his gasps.

Fucking coward.

  
  


-:-

Odhran’s wasn’t the only letter he received. _She_ sent him a letter too. Dutch hadn’t opened it— perhaps too distracted by the O’Driscolls’ promise of work, or maybe just unable to find a quiet moment to contemplate the message he knew was inside. 

The sun had barely risen in the sky, barely glistening off of the blankets of snow. He turned the envelope over in his hands. Susan always had very particular handwriting; he refused to let her teach Arthur, lest he pick up any of her _quirks._ Truth be told, Dutch had been worried about how'd they get along. It had been just the three of them for so long, and Arthur had been an unruly if not ragged, child, something Susan was not accustomed to given her profession. Hell, she’d openly expressed nothing but disdain for kids. Dutch and Hosea had been nervous, but those fears had been dashed shortly after she had joined up with them. Susan had fallen into a matronly role with ease when it came to the boy, shaping him from a young, feral thing into a civilized person within a week, something Dutch and Hosea hadn’t accomplished in the nearly two years before she started traveling with them. 

He resented her slightly for that, but of course he'd said nothing of it. After all, it was better for all of them, and Arthur melted under the woman’s firm touch. He'd become somewhat tolerable whenever she was around. 

But she wasn't around; not right now. 

They’d left her back in California. It was safer for her there, and she didn’t argue. This time— if anything, she seemed eager to be free of Dutch. They'd been butting heads as of late, petty arguments that seemed to span over hours, sometimes days. When he suggested she remain behind, his offer had been accepted immediately. If Dutch was being honest, he was glad to see her go, and silently hoped he wouldn’t see her again. Her henpecking had become absolutely unbearable; it was as though he couldn’t breathe around the woman without her jumping down his throat. 

He couldn’t bear her disappointment any longer. She was another in a long list of people he just couldn’t seem to do right by anymore, and just like the others she let that be known. 

More than that though, Dutch had more important things to take care of. He stuffed the letter back into his saddle bag. Arthur needed him sharp; needed him ready, and confident. 

And they _both_ needed money. He didn’t bother reading over the O’Driscolls’ letter again; he knew every word by now. Truth be told, he _wasn’t_ sure this was the best decision. If anything were to go wrong, if anything happened to him, Arthur would be left alone, thrown to the wolves. 

And if anything happened to Arthur….Dutch shook the thought from his head. Nothing would happen to Arthur— he’d be sure of it. They’d get in, get the cash, and get out without issue. He could handle it. 

He needed to show Arthur he could handle it.

He wasn’t sure why, exactly. The boy looked up to him regardless, he could tell that much. Despite his sharp tongue and biting remarks, Arthur ultimately was agreeable, especially since Hosea had gone.

One benefit, he supposed, to the man’s departure. He and Arthur hadn’t really fought in _weeks_. The peace couldn’t last forever, he knew that, but it was strangely nice having the young man as a companion rather than an adversary. He found him charming, even, and enjoyed Arthur’s company now more than ever.

In that peace came this inexplicable need to prove himself to the boy. To show that he was as capable as he pretended to be.

As if in answer to his thoughts, he heard a stifled cry from Arthur’s tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning my little spindly spider monkeys! Arthur freaks out! Dutch gets another letter! Good times all around! ♡
> 
> A huge thank you to everyone who takes the time to comment or kudos! I know it may not seem like it, but those little things really do make my day so much brighter ♡ Y'all keep me young. 
> 
> I'll see each and every one of you bright and early on Tuesday! A little life advice to tide you all over until then: sometimes the best thing to do is nothing :) And when you can't just do nothing, make sure you're getting enough sleep; it makes the 'something' much more tolerable ♡♡♡♡♡♡


	7. I. VII

Dutch furrowed his brows tight. The whimpers hadn’t ceased, achingly small. A cold sweat rolled down his neck. He crept in close, holding his breath though he didn’t realize it. His mind churned with concern and worry, wondering what may have happened, what might have earned such agonizingly upset cries. 

“Arthur?” he asked, voice low, met with heavy, quick breaths and barely concealed whimpers. He damn near dove into Arthur’s tent, throwing back the flaps to find him curled in a tight ball, one hand wound tight in his hair, the other clamped over his mouth.

Dutch’s heart sank, his stomach filled with lead.

He’d always been uniquely capable of soothing Arthur, of breaking him from these spells. It was the one thing he held over Susan and Hosea— the one thing he alone was capable of. He knew the feeling of panic and fear all too well, and was more than happy to act in the role of healer when he could. 

He was vigilant; he kept his eyes peeled, looking for signs that Arthur was slipping. He’d grown too relaxed these past months— he hadn’t expected this at all. It had been a while since he’d seen Arthur like this. Poor kid… he wondered, briefly, what might have set him off this time. He didn’t much care what did it, though. 

“Arthur…” he said, voice steady, “You okay?”

A nod, but Dutch wasn’t convinced. He knew the boy’s response was a reflex; he knew better than to listen. He inched closer, only then noticing the way his shoulders trembled.

He sat next to him, not daring to touch— not yet. Merely breathing, deep and slow, audibly in the hopes that Arthur might catch on. Slowly, he reached over, untangling Arthur’s fingers from his honey blond hair. He kept that hand wrapped in his own. For a moment, they simply sat like that, drinking in the quiet.

“I saw a blue jay this morning. Cute little thing, same color as the sky,” Dutch began, keeping careful watch of Arthur, “Hopped right on up to that horse of yours and sat there, like the two of ‘em were chatting. Made me wonder if they could understand each other, being animals and all.”

He inched closer to Arthur, their shoulders pressed together. The boy’s trembling had ceased; his breathing, though quick, had slowed. 

“Started on thinking about what they could talk about. That Atticus of yours… I’m not sure he’d make for the best conversation, dull as he is, but I bet he’d talk all about the places we’ve been.”

“He…” a small, shaky voice, “... ain’t dull.”

Dutch wrapped an arm around Arthur tight. Arthur leaned heavy into his chest.

“He got his head stuck in a boot, kid. Hell, he wandered into a fence line and couldn’t figure out how to turn around. He’s a bit dull,” Dutch said with a gentle laugh, “Though I guess he’s smart where it counts, huh? Like sniffing out treats.”

“Yeah,” Arthur’s voice was thick with emotion, “‘Figured out how to open the tin of peppermints.”

“That he did…” Dutch pulled him closer, “Do you… wanna talk about it?”

Arthur shook his head against Dutch’s chest. Dutch hummed in response.

“Okay then.” 

They stayed there a while, until the coffee had damn near frozen solid. When Arthur’s breathing had evened, and his expertly hidden tears were dry against Dutch’s shirt, Dutch left the boy to right himself before they continued on their way. 

They reached Bulrush by the early afternoon. Bulrush, like every other town they’d stopped in since parting ways with Hosea, was much the same as Split Branch: Equally as dismal, equally as boring, with people equally as foolish. The only difference that Dutch could find was that, for one reason or another, the people of Bulrush were wealthier than they knew what to do with. They filled the town with strange, small shops, selling curios no decent man might ever have use for. Women dragged hundred dollar dresses through the muck, arm-in-arm with men smoking silver tipped cigars, wearing their wallets in back pockets. Impractical, unthinking.

The perfect marks, as far as Dutch was concerned. These people were practically begging to be robbed. He and Arthur set to the inn first and foremost; they’d stay til the job was done, and despite Arthur’s insistence, Dutch refused to sleep in the freezing cold when there were perfectly good beds to be had in town. They found a place at the inn boasting two rooms, one larger living space with a bed in the middle, and one smaller room with a much smaller bed off to the side. Another stroke of good fortune, as far as Dutch was concerned.

“We don’t meet Colm and Odhran until this evening, so I thought we ought to devise a plan,” Dutch hummed as Arthur flopped down onto the bed exhausted, still in his coat. It was early in the day still, no reason for him to be in such a state, but even so he couldn't shake the tension from his nerves.

“Thought the O’Driscolls was bringing the plan…”

“I  _ meant _ a plan for us,” Dutch clarified. At this, Arthur groaned and sat up, scowling.

“What are you going on 'bout? What plans do  _ we _ need?”

“A plan for if this job goes belly up, for example. I figure we should meet back in Split Branch,” he ground out, hating the eyeroll Arthur didn’t bother to hide.

“Sure,” Arthur grumbled, “And when the O’Driscolls back-stab us, should I leave you here? Or am I meant to drag you all the way back to your mama and bury you there?”

Dutch exhaled sharply, “You aren’t over this yet?”

“Over what?”

“Been  _ sour _ since I got this damn letter. I am only doing what is best for the both of us, to ensure  _ our _ future. Unless you’d rather spend your days stuck out in the woods, eating squirrels, poor as they day is long, I suggest you give that a bit of thought. All I'm asking for is a bit of faith.”

To that, Arthur's face fell.

“Ah I’m… Sorry. I was just kiddin. I’m with you, Dutch. You know I got your back.”

“Good!” he nodded curtly, turning back to the map, “So as I was saying—”

There was a difference then. The rigidity gone, Arthur hunched over, watching him; listening without so much of a quip or a grunt in response. Most of the eyerolls and dissatisfied grunts had vanished, though the few that slipped through were readly overlooked.

Dutch, for the most part, felt elated. A small victory; an  _ accomplishment _ . There was a measure of pride there; he had gotten the boy to finally pay attention, to think about the bigger picture. He’d convinced him with words alone on how important this was. He always felt confident in his words, always was proud of his carefully crafted speeches that Hosea liked to call drivel. But here was the proof.  _ Actual _ proof that they indeed had some impact.

Dutch felt himself swell with confidence, unable to contain the smile on his face.

He could even ignore the way Arthur seemed to shift uneasily.

He took the opportunity to delve into details. No point in just scratching the surface; he was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn't notice the frown creeping on Arthur's face. When he reached the part of the plan that involved following with whichever O’Driscoll brother was closest until they reunited, should they separate, Arthur stood abruptly.

“Think… Think I oughta go stretch my legs,” he mumbled, something dismal on his face, “Maybe do some scouting… I’ll...”

He wasn't thrilled at the interruption, but he curbed himself. They had been sitting for a long time, and sitting wasn't something Arthur did all that well. So instead, he waved the boy off, feeling as though he had drilled him long enough with plans and plotting. It might even be good for him to blow off some energy before this all went down. Heavens knew he was a handful when he was all worked up.

“Just make sure you’re there in time, okay?” Dutch called after him, engrossing himself in spread out maps and hypothetical situations, “Wouldn’t want to keep Colm waiting.”

Arthur left without another word, and Dutch sat in that small room, softly humming to himself, finally feeling that gnawing anxiety ebb for the first time in weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my squishy little sea cucumbers! Dutch and Arthur show up to Bulrush and get ready to meet with the O'Driscolls. This can only go well, right? I'm sure it'll be fiiiiiiine! 
> 
> Remember that it's okay to do things for yourself. In fact, you are now required by law to do one single thing for yourself today. Doesn't even matter how small or simple it seems :) 
> 
> I'll see you all on Thursday, like always! See you then, dearies! ♡♡♡


	8. I. VIII

What the hell was wrong with him?

Wasn't this what he had wanted? Wasn't this precisely what he had been dreaming of? Maybe not exactly  _ how  _ he wanted— but it was something. A return to the Dutch he knew— a reemergence of the bright, inimitable man that had charmed him so helplessly. 

But all there was was anger. Arthur seethed. He fumed. Anger, frustration, exasperation— all of it in one wadded-up knot that grew inside him. 

He left, a writhing mass of irritation. He barely heard Dutch's reminder— as if he even needed it. The man had  impressed  the plan upon him time and time again; by now he could recite the damn thing from memory. Every hypothetical, every small thing that could go awry and what to do when it did. They didn’t even know what the job  _ was _ yet, and still his mind rattled with thoughts of escape routes and exit plans and code words and meeting points. 

He couldn't do it. He couldn't stay there and pretend it was all fine; like this wasn’t the stupidest idea Dutch had had in awhile. Like the O’Driscolls didn’t make his skin crawl. He'd never been much of an actor, despite Hosea’s best efforts. He might get lucky with a half-blind, deaf drunkard, but that was about it. He could never pull one over on Hosea, and certainly never with Dutch. 

That was why he had to leave. He couldn’t keep it to himself any longer. 

Lord did he need fresh air. His heart thrummed beneath his skin in time with his frustration. He was angry, oh so angry, and then he was angry for  _ being _ angry. 

For weeks now, he had bemoaned the loss of Dutch; of  _ his  _ Dutch. Arthur had grown bitter at this new, passionless side of the man that had come about after Hosea left. Arthur had gone to sleep near drunk every night, hoping and praying that the next day would be different, or that perhaps this all had been some nightmare. The ranting, the muttering, the self-absorption that left Arthur honestly feeling entirely alone. God, what he wouldn’t give to have his Dutch, the charismatic, joyful troublemaker, back for even a second.

And he got it at the cost of his soul, it seems. Either he worked with the O’Driscolls or he suffered a bland, flavorless Dutch for the rest of his life. It was a confusing twist of emotions he wasn't prepared for.

He hadn't been able to hide his hesitation and that alone had earned him a stern lecture as though he were a mere boy again. 

But Dutch was starting to act like himself for the first time in weeks; he was finally willing to do _something._ He was eager to do more than just pick pockets and his first thought was to join up with damn O'Driscolls. Now Arthur had to choose which he hated more— the Dutch he had been stuck with, or Colm O’Driscoll.

And God, he missed Hosea.

Offhandedly, he wondered if the man had written. He'd promised he would, once they got wherever it was they were going. It had been a while; surely they were settled in by now. Arthur pushed himself away from the fence, making his way through town. He did his best to avoid the others milling about, not feeling up to interacting with anyone at the moment. 

He was barely able to muster up the civility to ask after any mail.

He asked after his and Dutch’s name. 

They had a system; on the road as often as they were, mail was a hard thing to direct. Those closest to them were given a letter with a general idea of their route, and would direct messages accordingly, often to two or three towns at once. He sent such a letter to Hosea shortly after he and Bessie moved on. Surely something would have come through by now, even accounting for the snowstorms that had blown through the region. Split Branch was a bust; he checked just before they left. But that was days ago. 

To his surprise, there was something— a single, solitary envelope that had Arthur feeling a brief flutter in his heart. He grabbed it eagerly from the postman’s hand and damn near skipped outside. 

Only to find himself sinking further into the depths. 

Susan— it was from  _ Susan. _

God damn it all to hell. This day just kept getting better, wasn't it? The fury that had started to settle was all but blind with rage again, envelope trembling in his grasp. 

She had blessedly been out of their lives for months; they’d left her in California, safe in a town Arthur hadn’t bothered to learn the name of. She was working there; earning money, to pad out the allowance that Dutch already sent her regularly. That’s just how it was for all the women. They’d stay behind while the three of them traveled, finding work and pulling jobs.    
Oh, but Susan didn’t like that.  _ Susan _ insisted she was different and had convinced Dutch of it as well. There were a good few years where she and Bessie, hanging off the arms of Dutch and Hosea respectively, would linger around their camps or loiter about town. 

Susan was a  _ nightmare _ to live with. She was a harpy, cruel and swift with her punishments, shouting at him for no good reason. She insisted they all remain flawlessly clean and pristine; that he practice his writing for hours on end until his hands had cramped. If he gave her so much as a dirty look, sure as hell she would drag him to Dutch by his ear and demand something be done. 

And Dutch would acquiesce, because of course he would. Arthur was lucky the man had seen sense enough to leave her behind _ this _ time. 

Arthur stared at that envelope. He knew what was inside. Surely she was again begging for them to come get her. 

And Dutch would forget about all their fighting and the hell she put him through. He’d leave at the mere suggestion that she might want to see him again. He'd forget about everything, and whisk her away— draw her into a room of all their own while Arthur sat there forgotten. It had happened before. It'd happen again; and frankly, the thought of them together made his skin crawl. 

Of course...that would only happen if Dutch saw this damn letter. 

He glanced down at the envelope in his hand, the paper shaking slightly in his grasp. Another choice to join the fray— Dutch, the O’Driscolls, or  _ Susan _ . 

There was a sour taste in his mouth; his heart thumping against his chest. Without a second thought, he pulled loose his lighter and watched as flame swallowed the letter, reveling in that momentary warmth for as long as it lasted.

What Dutch didn't know couldn't hurt him. 

Couldn't hurt  _ them. _

Guilt slowly creeped through his veins as the ashes of the letter dissolved into the muck. Arthur swallowed thickly, hat drawn down over his face to block the blinding winter sun. If it perhaps offered privacy, a way to hide the prickling tears that burned in his eyes, well, it certainly wasn’t unwelcome. He wasn’t sure why he was so horribly upset; or maybe he did, but just was unwilling to acknowledge it. 

What a goddamned coward. 

Arthur itched with want; his muscles ached. He flexed his fingers, forcing himself to relax. Unrealizing until just then he had balled his hands, fingernails leaving bright red half-moons on his palms. He drew in a shaky breath. 

Were he younger, more impulsive perhaps, he’d’ve surely gone straight to the saloon and taken his pick of drunk, rowdy fools to beat on until this  _ feeling _ under his skin waned. Until his thoughts made sense again and weren’t plagued with whatever the hell this feeling was.

Maybe he would have anyways, if not for the call behind him catching his attention

“Hey! Ain’t that Dutch’s boy?”

He steeled his nerves, lifting his head with a venomous glare to find three O’Driscolls gawking at him. He only recognized one; Patrick, who he’d worked with a handful of times. The other two were O’Driscolls only by their neckerchiefs; kelly green and frankly gaudy. 

“Been a while,” Arthur grumbled, declining a handshake from Patrick.

“It sure as hell has!” Patrick chortled, “We just got back in from checkin on the Wiley’s— you seen the place yet?”

“They who we robbin?”

“Sure are! They got a coach headed out in two days with some cash n’ shit in it, heard there might even be a good bit’o gold, headed off for god knows where. Guess it don’t matter much, since it ain’t gonna get there. Ain’t no one told you this all yet?” He wrapped his arm around Arthur’s shoulder; Arthur had him beat by a good few inches, and shrugged him off with ease.

“Supposed to meet with Colm and Odhran tonight, we just got in ourselves. You sure this is a good take?”

“Well, I am damn sure! I seen some’a the stuff they already got in there— and they’ll be fillin that beauty for another day. Ah, I sure did miss you though— Smiles all around, when I heard you boys was taggin along— I weren’t sure why you’s was comin, seein’ as ye ain’t never done much but flich off the rest of our hard work. Hell, we already done the hard part!” 

Arthur forced a grin over his face, “Well maybe it’s cause you fellers is entirely useless, so yer bosses have to bring in some outside help. Oh, now— Don’t feel too bad! I doubt anyone could do better with as little brains as you.”

Patrick squared his shoulders slightly, tossing a glance towards the other two O’Driscolls, “Only thing useless ‘round here is that Van der Linde. Least you usually got enough sense to keep your yapper shut. Where’s your daddy gone to anyways, hey? All talk, he is.”

There was a swell of anger there, pushing past everything else that churned in Arthur’s chest. 

“Aw, come now!” one of the others chimed in, elbowing Patrick playfully, “Bet he’s useful for target practice. Betcha I could shoot that mole’a his right off his face.” 

Arthur’s ears rang with something new; something bitter that burnt off every drop of anger, or irritation, or guilt. As he watched the O’Driscolls shove and laugh and joke, that feeling washed over him, filling him to his marrow. Cold. Determined. Sharp. 

He called it  _ ‘opportunity’ _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gooooood morning my fluffy little cottontails! ♡ Arthur makes friends with some O'Driscolls! He regrets life decisions! He makes poor choices! What more could you ask for? 
> 
> I wonder how this is going to turn out.... 
> 
> Guess we'll find out on Sunday, won't we dears? But before we part ways, here's my wisdom for today: the water that softens the potato hardens the egg. Also does a whole bunch of other stuff. What matters is this- what will it do to you? 
> 
> See you Sunday, lovelies!!! ♡♡♡


	9. I. IX

Sunset drifted by quickly; far more quickly than he had hoped. There was more to plan for; more that could go wrong that he hadn’t had a chance yet to address. Dutch swallowed back the flutter of anxiety in his ribs. With a steadying breath and a tremble in his hands, he pushed to his feet and set off to the saloon, coat pulled tight around him.

Saloons in small towns were indisputably alike; rife with noise and life, enough so that a single illicit meeting would go unnoticed. There were enough people that it was easy to get lost in the crowd; easy to escape, if it came to it. Better yet, the Bulrush saloon was mere steps from the inn where he and Arthur had holed up. He’d been watching from the window, glancing up from his notes every few minutes to quietly watch the O’Driscolls who buzzed about like insects, flitting in and out all day. A rare show of preparation, or the habits of a gang incapable of going more than a few minutes without starting trouble? Dutch wasn't sure. 

The saloon was absolutely packed, as he might expect. The crowd had spilled out into the street, drunk and disorderly, absolutely oblivious to whatever might occur. As he had hoped; for this kind of troublemaking, crowds were a must. Dutch squared his shoulders, lifting his chin before pushing through the door. 

_Confidence,_ Hosea had told him once, and he hated that the man’s voice now echoed in his mind, _if you ain’t got it, fake it twice over._

He’d been young then, maybe sixteen. Hosea had been a fast friend. Robbing a man only to get conned in return tended to do that; bonds forged in debauchery were strong and unyielding. He’d taken Dutch under his wing without question, nurturing that conniving spirit and fostering his talents as a thief and a liar. Hosea had seen in him what Dutch hoped he could faultlessly project now. 

Dutch subtly shook those lingering memories from his mind. Hosea wasn’t here. Why his lungs ached so fiercely with trepidation, he wasn’t sure, but he hated it all the same. 

He could do this, without question. He had to. 

“Well, if it ain’t ol’ Van der Linde himself! Told ya he’d show!”

A smile spread across his face; practiced. Easy. Overly-wide and decidedly fake. 

“Colm! Odhran! A pleasure, as always!” he approached the table where they sat; Colm had just about mirrored his cheshire grin, though the corners of his mouth pulled slightly wider, baring the very edges of his teeth. Odhran, as always, sat with a heavy face, as though carved in stone. Something about it had always irritated Dutch, it was as though the man was trying desperately hard to remain unreadable. It was equally as intentional as his own crocodile smiles. Dutch rested a hand on Colm’s shoulder; the younger man was always the more approachable of the two. Easier to read, easier to navigate. 

Colm yanked him in closer, “I was just tellin’ ol’ Oddy here all about that last run we had together!”

“Is that so?” Dutch felt his stomach drop at the mention; their last job had not been his finest work and he wasn’t hesitant to admit it. 

“Sure is!” Colm beamed. He wrapped his arm around Dutch’s neck, pulling him down close enough to smell the rancid note that seemed to stick with the man at all times, “Wish you’d been there, brother, it truly was a sight to behold. Van der Linde and his boys, all up in arms, chargin’ in, mad as devils! I mean that kid— got yourself a fighter! Where is he anyhow?”

“Ah, the kid?” Dutch didn’t let his grin flicker for even a second; refused to let the facade slip from his face, “He sure is something— he’ll be here soon enough, he’s just running a little behind.” 

He was going to kill that boy when he showed up. He had one goddamned job— all he had to do was show up and look intimidating. That was _it_ and he couldn’t even manage something so painfully simple. If he couldn’t even trust Arthur to show up on time, how could he possibly rely on the boy to work an actual goddamned job?

They’d need to have a long discussion about his behavior. Dutch could feel the rant bubbling up in his thoughts. But that could wait; it would have to, because Odhran was staring at him with unmatched intensity. The man was prone to that; quiet, but intense, as if he were looking right through you. 

“Where’s Matthews?” he asked, lips pursed in a tight frown. 

“He…” at this, Dutch faltered, breaking free of Colm's hold, “He’s gone. But we’ll be fine without him.”

He didn’t take the time to consider if they would, actually, be fine without Hosea. It wasn’t like they had a choice. He just hoped whatever they had planned didn’t rely too heavily on the missing man.

Odhran seemed satisfied with his answer, thankfully, and shifted back in his chair. Colm, however, leaned forward eagerly. 

“Oh, well ain’t that somethin? Without that old nancy holdin’ you back, I guess we’ll catch a glimpse of the _real_ Van der Linde, huh Dutchy?”

Colm cackled, his face split into a horrible laugh. Dutch chuckled along with him, hiding the stab of discomfort with ease.

“So,” Dutch elbowed Colm, “What’s this job you got? Seems real important if you’re callin’ for help.”

“Sure is,” Colm chortled, “It’s a real good one—“

He dove into a colorful explanation of the job. The Wiley family had enriched themeless off the backs of the working class of surrounding towns and were one of the wealthier families living in Bulrush. They had a frankly obscene manor on the very edge of town and more wealth than they knew what to do with.

Emphasis on _had_. The Wileys died after a particularly nasty outbreak of some fever or another, which claimed both Robert and Eleanor, as well as three of their adult children and half of the house staff. They had one son remaining: a politician in Cheyenne who couldn’t be bothered to make the journey out to attend the funerals— owing to the weather, or so he claimed. 

He did, however, arrange for his family’s personal effects to be delivered via coach. Money, antiques, jewelry; all of their physical wealth in one nondescript coach set to leave in just a few days. 

The last of the Wiley staff had drafted locals to keep watch, the fools, and had blindly brought a number of O’Driscoll boys onto their payroll. They’d kept an eye on things for nearly two weeks now: there’d be extra muscle and a good number of guns defending the coach, and guard changes halfway through the route. There were outriders too; hired guns that were not to be trifled with.

“This is where you and your boy figure in. We need a hand in stopping the coach and keeping everything _civil._ Our men are good but tend to get a little… enthusiastic. It’s always good to have a few extra hands, and we heard y’all was in the area. See, Odhran here thinks it best we grab the coach without making a scene, replace a few of the secondary guards at the switch off, before it picks up the extra outriders. Now I figure,” Colm offered in conclusion, “We kill the lot of ‘em well before then. Hell, we could just as well storm the damn place now and finish off them what the fever didn’t—“

Colm’s head slammed hard into the table with a sickening crack. Odhran had pushed from his chair, a flare of anger blazing over his face. He held his brother’s head firm against the wood, hand fisted in his hair, ignoring his writhing and spitting.

Dutch flinched backwards, consuming panic flushing through his system in a rush. The careful mask of confidence he had worn shattered in an instant; fear replaced it. Insecurity, and doubt, and terror in that moment, as Odhran leaned in close to Colm’s face, his own features curled into a sneer. 

“That _ain’t_ how we do things. We ain’t savages, you mewling, soft-headed _idiot,_ ” he put more pressure on Colm’s head, digging him harder into the tabletop. Colm ceased his writhing in place of quiet acquiescence; hastily mumbled apologies. With a hearty roll of his eyes, Odhran released his hold. 

Colm sat up, wiping the blood from his nose and spitting more onto the floor. Dutch grit his teeth tight; Odhran remained standing, looming over them.

“I'm sorry you had to see that, Mr. Van der Linde. Unfortunately my brother has an awful habit of not listening unless he is made to. Colm, see to it that Van der Linde and his boy are settled. It’s about time I returned to camp. And you—” His words, at first, were rambled into the air; perfectly articulated, but without direction or meaning. He turned his attention to Dutch then, and Dutch damn near shriveled beneath it, only barely finding the confidence to match his glare, “If you or that boy ever want it, you got a permanent place with us. Despite what the actions of this sniveling _fool_ might suggest, we treat our men right.”

“… I’ll consider it,” Dutch replied, unwilling to blatantly deny a man so clearly on the edge. Or maybe he simply wished to keep his options open— to not turn away an opportunity, in case he might come to need it later. 

With a curt nod, Odhran took his leave. Colm had cast downtrodden eyes upon the smears of blood left on the table as he rolled the soreness from his neck.

“Well all right then,” he said, lacking his usual jovial tone, “What’s say we take a walk, discuss this job a bit more?”

“What’s say we do,” Dutch offered Colm his handkerchief to sop up some of the blood that rolled down his chin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning, you gorgeous little pothos vines! I hope today you grow big and strong, and nobody forgets to water you! 
> 
> Dutch! And Colm! And our first glance at Odhran! What a trio they make.... I'm sure they'll get along just fine :) 
> 
> Thank you for reading!!! It really means a lot to see those little numbers tick up, and lordy do I beam when I get a comment or two. You're all so sweet ♡
> 
> See you on Tuesday, loves! ♡♡♡


	10. I. X

The streets beyond the saloon were largely empty. Quiet, save for the odd muttering drunk or pleading woman looking for work. Some of that silence was owed to the snow; it carpeted the area, or what hadn’t been shoveled clear, and absorbed the stray sounds that usually polluted a town. Dutch didn’t mind it.

At first they walked in silence, Colm righting himself and stemming the bleeding from his nose, and Dutch mulling the plan over in his mind, until Colm cut off his thoughts.

“Offer does stand, y’know. Odhran likes you fellers well enough, if you wanted to join up. Think of the trouble we could find workin’ together full time. Lots of money to be made, Dutch.”

Dutch hummed, “We ain’t like you. We ain’t in this for the money. All we want is to live free, surely you can understand that well as anyone.”

Colm laughed heartily, slapping Dutch hard on the back, “Say what you like— but hey. You, or the kid— we got plenty of boys ‘round his age. Might do him some good to get away from the old folks for a bit, learn to get along with fellers his own age.” 

Perhaps Colm was right; a life so transient didn’t offer much room for friendship. Maybe it’d be good for Arthur, spending time with the O’Driscolls, around people his same age who might be better prepared to help him navigate the perils of young adulthood. His childhood had been hard enough with only two egotistical conmen to guide him— maybe some measure of friendship might be what he needed.

God, he nearly split into uproarious laughter at the idea. Arthur being sociable. Making _friends._ Dutch could hardly imagine such a thing.

“Thank you kindly for the offer,” Dutch chuckled, “But my boy gets along well enough—“

A crash to their left had both men flinching for their firearms; over their conversation they hadn’t heard the throes and vitriol of a fight. 

Of _Arthur._

The pair of them stood, staring at the scene before them, trying and failing to make some kind of sense out of it.

If nothing else, Arthur could get loud.

It was funny, annoying more often than not but funny all the same, when he was young— when his voice was shrill and cracked on every other word. Hearing the scrawny kid screech and holler til he was blue in the face was a common occurrence; he’d yell about nearly anything, good or bad, at any hour. Hell, half the time, he’d yell at Dutch for just existing. Dutch would yell right back until neither had a voice left to shout with. For the most part, it was readily ignored.

Even when he was slightly older, voice less prone to cracking, he got loud; usually to tell someone off or express his unwavering frustration. The very definition of ‘all bark and no bite’. 

When his voice finally settled, and his height was matched with broad shoulders, Arthur got quiet, either having grown into contentment or realized that shouting wasn’t worth his while anymore. Either way, Dutch hadn’t heard Arthur shout like he used to in years. 

He definitely would have preferred it. 

Instead, Arthur wordlessly straddled a man, illuminated by flickering lantern light, stolen away down an alley. Blood splattered the ground; gasps and gurgles were punctuated by the wet sound of Arthur’s fist driven into the man’s face.

Dutch stumbled back a half-step.

“Arthur—“ he choked out, more than a little taken aback. He gawked, wide-eyed, first at Colm, then at the other two thoroughly beaten men, lying unconscious in the alley. At least he hoped they were unconscious; hoped that Arthur hadn’t just murdered two O’Driscoll’s right in front of Colm himself, “Arthur, what are you— “

Colm seemed equally perturbed, and if Dutch didn’t know any better, he’d’ve sworn there was some measure of amusement lurking in his eyes; a glimmer across his features, not unlike that of a child on Christmas.

He swallowed thick, stricken by the wrongness of it all. Blood flecked in with his freckles, contrasted against his mossy green eyes and the pink in his cheeks, highlighted by the golden sheen of sweat, all delicately painted across gentle features twisted in anger— well, Dutch would never breathe a word of it, but good God did Arthur wear wrath well. But Dutch had seen enough. He surged forward, grabbing Arthur’s shoulder, pulling the man back only slightly. It's all he could manage; Arthur had _pounds_ on him, and each was pure, unfettered muscle.

_“Arthur!”_

Arthur roared, thunderous and startling. He wheeled around, fist still curled tight, the other balled in the O’Driscoll’s collar. Vaguely, Dutch thought of his daddy, a strange non sequitur considering he hadn’t ever known the man to yell. But oh, the spark in his eye was horribly familiar, a lingering remnant of a man who met his end due entirely to that spark. 

But now, Arthur’s fiery glare was fixed on Dutch and he—

He was scared. For just a moment, he was scared. 

That thought fled just as soon as it appeared as Dutch’s eyes drank in the gruesome scene. His focus fell in particular to a gun, limp in one of the O’Driscoll’s grasp, a single, pale finger still wound around the trigger. That brought with it a new kind of fear; a new terror, one that chilled him worse than the bite in the air ever could. Arthur's gun was still holstered. He hadn't drawn it, or couldn't or... 

The O'Driscoll's chest rose unevenly, noisily, as his lips parted in an agonized groan. At least he was alive. At least Arthur’s onslaught on the poor man’s face had ceased. “What the hell are you doing?” Dutch whispered, hoping the horror in his voice was enough to act as placeholder for the tirade Arthur surely deserved. Arthur stood, silently, kicking the man hard in the stomach and muttering an angry _“piece of shit”_ before dusting himself off. 

“Seems like he’s givin’ my men a run for their money,” Colm mused, nudging the leg of one of the incapacitated O’Driscolls with the tip of his boot. He raised his voice, directing a surprisingly even-toned, bordering on nonchalant, shout towards Arthur, “... Better hope they deserved it, boy.” 

“You teach your people to watch their mouths, Colm, ‘less you want more of ‘em to _deserve it._ ”

Dutch grabbed Arthur hard by the back of his collar, yanking him along, “I apologize on behalf of my boy, Colm. Sometimes his temper gets the better of him— it won’t happen again. I’ll— You can take their doctor’s bill out of our share, as a show of good will.”

Colm’s face split into a grin as he watched Dutch damn near drag Arthur down the road, back towards the inn.

“Offer stands,” he called out after them, but it went unheard over Arthur’s disgruntling murmurs and the rush of humiliation pounding through Dutch’s ears. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Hosea, you better get back soon before Arthur actually kills someone... Dutch doesn't have the emotional intelligence to deal with something like that. 
> 
> Hey y'all! I've been unbelievably busy these past few weeks and totally almost forgot I was supposed to be posting things. Whoops. But it's cool, I remembered ♡ 
> 
> Next time on Evergreen, more things happen! And those things continue to be bad! I'll see you on Thursday, you fluffy little puffins! ♡♡♡


	11. I. XI

He couldn’t be more upset if he tried. 

Arthur had always had a short, unpredictable temper but this— _this_ — 

Dutch threw Arthur into their room at the inn and almost immediately took to pacing across the floor. Arthur sat, watching him warily but saying nothing, mottled with blooming bruises and dripping blood. Dutch couldn’t be sure whose blood it was, exactly, and that fact alone turned his stomach. 

The image of that gun, still in the O’Driscoll’s hand, dug itself into his thoughts and refused to leave. 

Try as he might, he couldn’t put into words just what he was feeling. Disappointment, shame, anger, concern— all of it roiled under his skin, mixing terribly with the anxiety that already lingered there as a permanent fixture. 

Arthur might’ve just soiled their _one_ working relationship— their only chance for decent money at the moment, and Arthur _had_ to go and fuck it up. He couldn’t just listen, couldn’t just show up when he needed to. Dutch had to apologize— he had to find some greater way to make amends for Arthur’s shortsighted rage, to mend the bond and restore their last chance at a good take, something to set them for a few months at least. 

More than that, he could have gotten himself killed. 

Lectures and admonishments swirled on Dutch's tongue; shouts of rage mingling with cries of worry. But lord, the words just wouldn’t come.

The air around them was silent, foreboding, as if announcing the brewing tempest; warning of a storm waiting to surge. Steps heavy as he paced, Dutch ran a shaky hand running through hair. His mind alight with scattered thoughts, a multitude of doubt and disbelief crashing into one another.

He thought they were over this. He _believed_ it was past them— he was thoroughly convinced both he and Hosea had browbeat it out of the youth but apparently they had been played for fools. Worse yet, the lackadaisical manner Arthur held, a nonchalant concern resting in his gaze. Smug, almost. 

That was the worst of all. The anger, barely restrained, thundered through him as he raised a finger towards Arthur.

“You…” he breathed, voice barely a whisper, swollen with contempt he could barely hold back, “Are _lucky_ that Colm is not the kind to hold a grudge. Do you have _any_ idea what you might have done?”

Arthur blinked owlishly at the accusation, “What _I_ might have done? Dutch, they went and started it— It was them or me!“

“I don’t _care_ who started it!” he cut him off, more than done with this flippant attitude— this complete lack of accountability that Arthur had adopted, while Dutch worked himself raw trying to keep the two of them afloat, “What I _do_ care about is the fact that you can’t keep yourself in check for two goddamned minutes!” He hissed, pinching the bridge of his nose; there were the tendrils of a headache budding there, “All you had to do was show up, Arthur! And you couldn’t even manage that!”

There was a hint of something that flashed across Arthur’s face. Something heavy and hurt, though it lingered for only a second— his expression dropped into a sneer just as quickly, his foot stamping as though he were a child called out on ill behavior. How true a sentiment that was, hearing the next words fall from his mouth.

“Oh, of _course_ you’re gonna take their side!”

“Their _side?”_ Dutch retorted indignantly. He couldn’t believe he was even having this conversation. What the _hell_ had gotten into this boy? As if this was some sort of _competition_ like one of his silly tavern brawls. 

“This is not about _sides_ , Arthur! We all have to work together, and you’re going around sticking your nose where it doesn't belong!” he stressed. Then softer, drawn out and thin, “ I thought you were over this.”

“What’re you on about?” he wondered, edging on accusatory. 

“What would you do if I wasn’t here, huh? Where the hell would you be then?” Dutch bit trying to make his point stick, trying to make the boy think for _once_. To try and get something through that thick head of his before it came clean off his shoulders— at the rate he was going, that’d be sooner rather than later.

But Arthur clearly didn’t see that.

“Well, for starters,” Arthur recoiled, looking entirely confused, “I wouldn’t be getting lectured over every _goddamned_ little thing, that’s for sure! For fuck’s sake, ain’t like I even killed no one!”

As if that was Dutch’s problem— as if _murder_ was the worst thing Arthur could do. As though beating those men to the very brink of death was simply a minor inconvenience— something to be swept under the rug and forgotten. As though Arthur’s nose still didn’t ooze, and his face hadn’t bloomed with bruises and his knuckles weren’t split and torn. As though that O’Driscoll didn’t have a damn _gun_. 

“Fucking Christ, you useless _moron!_ ”

Dutch whirled on his heels, intending to get in Arthur’s face so he might drive home the lesson of his stupidity and recklessness, only to find the boy’s breath had quickened, his pupils blown wide and hands curled tight. Otherwise, Arthur didn’t react.

Dutch paused; torn. 

He lowered his voice, forcing away the desire to yell, to shout, to scream until he was blue in the face because for a moment, for just a moment, he forgot that this was Arthur. Arthur, who had never been one to tolerate screaming well unless he had started it. Arthur, who until only recently, flinched when Dutch so much as laughed a little too loud. 

“I’m… Look, I know you don’t want to work with them,” Dutch growled, keeping his voice steady, “You have made that abundantly clear from the onset, but this job—“

“There are other jobs!” he pleaded, stressed now, Dutch could hear it in the waver of his tone, “Why we gotta risk our hides on the O’Driscolls when we could take a stage of our own?”

“And where are these other jobs, Arthur?” he wondered, coldly. “Who exactly is meant to find them? You spend your days, picking fights in the tavern and drinking yourself stupid; or wandering around god knows where, doing god knows what. So don't you go telling me that you are chasing down these leads and— and apparently I can't either, because someone has to keep an eye on you so you don’t run off and kill a man just for the hell of it!”

“You? Keepin' an eye on _me?'_ ' he seemed confused. Panicked. Snarling, “Was that before or after all your whinin'? Hell, why you think I go off so often anyhow? Is to get away from all your _complainin_.”

“Oh, now _I’m_ the one who’s been complaining?” 

Arthur hadn't missed a single opportunity to let his opinions be known since first announcing the job. Arthur sulked, try as he might to hide how bitter he had become. That unruly, foul attitude that had graced them soon after the boy started following him seemed to be reemerging. It had been tampered, tamed, softened by the likes of Bessie and time in general, but now it had reared its ugly head. Dutch was just about fed up with all of it.

Arthur clicked his teeth, his voice tight, “These O’Driscolls is bad news, Dutch!”

Dutch bit, “They ain’t given you _one_ reason to be so damn sour. They certainly ain’t gave you a reason to beat on them! You are acting like a damn _child_ , Arthur.”

Arthur shot back: “Colm’s just using you. Surely you can see that, with all your _planning_.”

“Colm and I go way back,” he grit his teeth, looking up. “Before _you_ was even with us; I trust him. That should be enough for you.”

“That don’t mean shit,” Arthur hissed out, “I seen the kind of folk you get on with—” 

“That's _enough_ , Arthur.”

The end of the discussion. Argument. Whatever this was. Whatever retort Arthur had drafted up would go unspoken. He had no interest in it. A moment passed, a beat of silence. 

Arthur rolled his eyes, attempting to storm off to his meager little room, surely to slam the door and only further his role as a tantrum-throwing child. Dutch gripped his arm tight. 

“I will not stand for this kind of behavior. This— this _blatant insubordination_ . I am the one in charge here. Get it through your thick skull— it ain’t your job to question me, and it ain’t your job to make decisions. It’s your job to shut the hell up and do as I say, and if you can’t even manage _that_ , I think we got ourselves a problem. Do I make myself clear?” 

Arthur yanked his arm free of Dutch’s hold. His icy glare bore into Dutch, hard as stone. Dutch matched it, slowly squaring his shoulders. 

In his younger years, Arthur often tested Dutch in this way, attempting to prove his dominance, or perhaps to intimidate him. It never worked; until rather recently, Arthur was a scrawny thing, entirely non-threatening, he’d filled out in these last years and was nearly as tall and far more broad than Dutch himself. 

They stared at one another, neither wavering.

“Sorry,” Arthur’s face was eerily still as he spoke, his gaze held steady, “ _boss_.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure a thorough talking to is all Arthur needs to get his act together! Nothing awful will come of this :)
> 
> .... probably. 
> 
> My dearies, we are picking up pace now! Hopefully you're enjoying this one- I know it's been a rollercoaster and will absolutely continue to be. I'll see you all on Sunday, you adorable fingerling potatoes ♡♡♡


	12. I. XII

Stupid fucking kid. Why he insisted on acting like a child the minute he didn’t get his way was well beyond Dutch, but lord did it make his blood boil. 

Surely Arthur wasn’t so blind that he couldn’t see that Dutch was doing all of this for _him_ ? They were a team— a _family_ — and Arthur was doing his damnedest to act like they weren’t anything more than strangers. Now, though, it was just the two of them, and Dutch had to shoulder the responsibility of keeping them both alive. It wasn’t like he _wanted_ to work with the O’Driscolls— their jobs were often unwieldy, uncontrollable things that only pulled together in the last desperate seconds. They never went to plan, but Dutch was being careful this time. _He_ planned. He did his damnedest to make up for their unruliness, but Arthur couldn’t see it. 

Goddamnit. 

He watched Arthur retreat into his small bedroom, the inn filled with simple silence. He strained his ears against it, listening for small, quieted sobs, but none came. Dutch fell back on his own bed, the heels of his palms dug hard into his eyes. 

God, he felt like he was drowning. 

He didn’t want it to be like this. He hadn’t _expected_ it to be like this. He and Arthur were getting along— they were finally making progress, bonding, not at each other’s throats every second of every day. 

They just needed a bit more _order._ A bit more self control, more responsibility. They couldn’t just run amok like Arthur clearly wanted— whether the boy saw it or not, those had been dark days.

Weeks ago, months ago maybe, just after Hosea left, they lived like that. Unhinged, uninhibited, truly wild. The pair of them, untamable, freed from the shackles of Hosea’s watchful eye.

They’d been in Juniper when it all went to shit. 

Until then, they’d torn across the countryside like wildfire, entirely out of control and burning brighter than ever. There, too, as they tugged their bandanas over their faces and kicked in the door to the sizable general store. The beaming grins beneath their coverings were obvious— their eyes were crinkled and bright. 

Juniper had a big ass store, one that carried some _real_ nice things. A perfect mark, as far as they were concerned— not that that mattered much any more. These days, they were looking for raw thrill and nothing more.

They entered together just as the sun settled over the mountains and a thick darkness fell over the valley. The shopkeep let out a startled yelp, one cut off by a cattleman shoved under his tongue. Arthur kicked the man to the floor, bound and gagged, trussed up like a turkey, whimpering into the wad of cloth Arthur had shoved down his throat. 

Dutch took the register, smashing the drawer open and shoving its contents into his pockets. 

“See if there’s anything else worth takin’,” he called out, disrupting Arthur who was whispering threats and insults to the man in exchange for his horrified silence. His hand was balled tight in the shopkeeper’s hair. The man’s head dropped to the floorboards with a miserable groan as Arthur leapt up. 

“Got it!” Arthur chirped. 

Dutch chuckled as Arthur, with all the enthusiasm of a weasel in a chicken coop tore through every drawer, every cabinet, every crate, every shelf. Dutch searched behind the counter to the sound of smashing glass and clattering goods. No doubt Arthur breaking shit rather than taking it. Dutch grabbed fistfuls of cigars, cheeks burning from his too-wide grin, when Arthur hollered for him.

“Dutch!” he beamed, standing on the very tips of his toes to reach something on the top shelf. 

“Don’t say my name, dumbass!” Dutch hissed, though his irritation melted off once Arthur proudly displayed armfuls of liquor; moonshine, if he had to guess, given the clearly homemade nature. He let out a low whistle.

“Got liquor!” Arthur said, about as excited as a kid on Christmas. 

“Well, go on!” Dutch jeered, “Crack one open, taste the goods, see if they’re worth anything!” 

“What? Like hell, _you_ drink it!”

He lobbed a jar at Dutch. Merely cracking the lid was enough to make his eyes water, but Arthur was watching, waiting, so Dutch took a swig. He sputtered and coughed, but kept it down.

“Shit, that’s good stuff,” Dutch wheezed, leaning against the counter while he regained his breath. He stared at Arthur expectantly. “Go on then, don’t pussy out on me now.”

“I-I ain’t!” Arthur bit, taking a short sip from one of the jars. He choked on it, spilling a good measure from the open jar onto the floor, where it soaked dark into the wood. “Shit,” he hissed, mourning the near half-jar that now seeped into the floor.

After a moment, he broke out into laughter, damn near doubled over. 

“Aw, can’t hold your liquor?” Dutch prodded, “What’s wrong with you?”

“It— It—“ Arthur’s laughter only worsened. He pointed at the stain on the floor, “It looks like Susan!”

Dutch hopped the counter, staring at the dark mark himself. It looked like a splotch, but Arthur’s cackling was contagious anyhow and quickly spread to him. He smacked Arthur’s arm just about as hard he could, given how overcome with laughter he was, “Dumbass, it does _not!_ ” 

“Here, here…” carefully, Arthur dipped his finger in the booze and added a few lines to the picture. If pressed, Dutch might have admitted that yes, maybe it did look a little like Susan, with her same pout and crossed arms. Instead though, he grabbed the open jar himself.

“Lemme show you how it’s done,” he said, writing his name on the floor in big, scrawling letters. The alcohol pooled on the wood, but the word was still legible. He waved Arthur back before drawing out his lighter and setting it aflame. 

His name burned bright blue, stark in the waning light that filled the shop. He stomped out the flames quickly, leaving only a dark black scar behind. Arthur was cast in that glow, however short lived it was, and snatched the lighter once it had burned down, setting his caricature of Susan aflame. Before those flames had even died, the pair took to painting more images throughout the shop, drinking deep from the jars between crafting their masterpieces, burning them into the wood until the inevitable happened: someone outside started hollering for the cops and kicking up a real fuss.

Dutch groaned; why was there always a witness? 

“Oh goddamn it… Time to go,” Arthur yelped. 

“Well hold on… We gotta do somethin’ about all this,” Dutch said, pausing for a moment to admire the scorched names and pictures they’d left scarred into the shop. 

Arthur looked deep in thought for a moment, before his eyes again crinkled with that same mischievous smile. 

“I got an idea… Come on!”

Arthur grabbed the shopkeep with one hand and Dutch with the other, dragging them both outside, though one more literally than the other. Under his arm he carried jars of what remaining moonshine they had found. The streets outside were abuzz with activity and life, life that paused when they emerged. He threw the shopkeep into the dirt.

“Arthur—“

“One sec—“ Arthur ripped a strip off of his own shirt and tucked it into the jar. Briefly, he explained, “Some feller taught me how to do this once, let's hope it works!”

Before Dutch could ask, Arthur lit the scrap of fabric aflame and threw the contraption at the shop. Far more quickly than either had anticipated, the building caught fire, the flames growing and spreading absolutely unchecked. Arthur let out an excited whoop, one Dutch couldn’t help but match. It was quite a sight. 

Laughing and hollering, the pair threw themselves atop their horses, tearing down the main street of Juniper. 

Arthur lobbed three more of his fire bottles before they were clear of the town’s edge. Breathless, chortling with joy, and absolutely beaming, the pair of them retreated into the woods for the night, the angry flames of Juniper rising in their wake. That night, they polished off the rest of the moonshine and picked out shapes in the plumes of dark black smoke. 

The next morning though, they both ached. Dutch awoke to Arthur’s miserable groans. 

“You okay?” he asked, definitely not okay himself. His head felt like an overripe melon, and his skin stung and burned. Vision bleary, Dutch could make out small blisters on his hands and arms. Judging by how his face prickled, he assumed the same was true for his face. 

He glanced over at Arthur only to find him suffering similarly. Licked by the flames they’d left in Juniper, no doubt. Dutch peeled open his satchel, blessedly close by, only to find it empty where bandages and ointments had once been. He let the flap drop closed. They could handle some blisters anyways. 

“Think I’m dying,” Arthur groaned, eyes squeezed shut, “We got breakfast?”

They didn’t. Dutch didn’t even have to look to know it. They hadn’t had a proper stock of rations in a while, and they certainly didn’t now.

“I’ll go into town,” Dutch mumbled, praying that Arthur might stop him before he stood. Instead the boy curled in on himself. They hadn’t shown their faces, and hadn’t been spotted there before, so he knew the town would be just as safe as ever. At least, safe enough that he could pop into the saloon for some breakfast before they hit the road. 

Dutch went, but Juniper wasn’t there. The fires still smoldered, but most of the town had been reduced to charcoal. In the streets, people wept, tended to by policemen. Others rallied what angered civilians remained, hoping to spur them into a posse. Bodies were piled along the road, charred and barely recognizable as human. Already, there were posters hung— nameless, sure, but bearing their vaguest likeness— searching for the pair of them. 

Dutch stared at the scene for a moment, taking in the wreckage in the light of early morning. 

_What had they done?_

He raced back to their little camp in the woods, rousing a grouchy Arthur and damn near shoving him onto his horse. The pair of them tore off, as far from Juniper as they could get. He hadn’t gone back to any of the others; he hadn’t thought to. Had they left them similarly, ringing with the cries of widows and orphans? It wasn't supposed to be like this. _They_ weren't supposed to be like this. Juniper wasn’t even the only one. No, it was one of many towns they had devastated similarly. It would, however, be the _last_. 

As they rode, Arthur remained stoic but Dutch could see the way he held the reins gingerly, as if his hands were bothering him greatly. They looked worse than Dutch’s. He saw the gauntness in Arthur’s cheeks; he’d lost weight. Not a lot, but enough that Dutch was immediately consumed by guilt. 

When they slowed their pace, trotting down the road, Arthur took to telling tales of their conquests, and each sat poorly with Dutch. He watched Arthur carefully— every flinch when he pulled raw skin, every twinge of pain when they broke free of shadows and into the light, every time he hissed insults at passersby who looked at them wrong. 

And he… didn’t like it. He didn’t like this _thing,_ this version of Arthur that had emerged; he didn’t like the desperation, the fear. It was like looking back at that street child once more. When had that happened? When had Arthur become so lost that he slipped back into that scared boy?

“Y’know,” Arthur grinned, lopsided and wide, disrupting his thoughts, “Hosea would have never let us do this.”

Dutch knew that. He knew how Arthur meant those words, he could hear it in the sloppy tone in his voice, but for some reason, those words stuck with him. They weighed on him.

Hosea wouldn’t have let them do this. 

But... didn't he? 

Before he left, Hosea assured Dutch that the pair of them wouldn’t last a month. He exclaimed that he’d be earnestly surprised if they didn’t die within the week, but they certainly wouldn’t survive without him. Hosea knew this would happen and he left anyways

They couldn’t go on like this— _Arthur_ couldn’t go on like this. They'd end up hanged or worse by the week's end if something didn't give, and damn it, he wasn't about to let that happen.

Dutch came to two solemn conclusions then and there: he’d see to it that they survived this whole ordeal and emerged all the stronger for it, and he would never forgive Hosea. The bastard left them to die, he knew the pair of them were unruly and he _left_ them. Perhaps, somewhere deep in his core, Dutch knew that was wrong— but it was an easier thought than blaming himself; easier to place fault on the man who hadn’t been there.

After that, he took responsibility. Their burns healed, their hangovers faded. Dutch stepped up and tried to make smart choices; the _right_ choices. He did what he thought was best for him and Arthur, no matter how much Arthur bitched about it, and damn it he would keep trying to do right by that boy if it killed him.

Given the tension headache that budded behind his eyes, Dutch thought that might just happen. He lay there in that bed, an arm over his eyes, for a good, long while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning you adorable field mice! Here's a tasty little glimpse of what made Dutch so grouchy so suddenly ♡ 
> 
> Today's life advice: sometimes you'll feel overwhelmed; like you're drowning. That's normal, but that doesn't mean you have to stay that way. Take a break, dears. Let yourself breathe. It will all be there when you get back. 
> 
> That's all for now! I've got a thousand and one things that I need to do, and they won't get done without me. But I love each and every one of you, and I hope you are well. Stay warm, my friends! ♡♡♡


	13. I. XIII

Fucking job. Fucking  _ O’Driscolls. Fucking Dutch.  _

His chest bit and burned, aching terribly somewhere between his ribs. 

Arthur just needed to fucking breathe for a second without Dutch’s judgmental eyes set upon him, but he couldn’t so much as slip out the front door without Dutch starting up another tirade.  _ Why  _ the man was so bent on getting in  _ his  _ business, Arthur wasn't sure. What he was sure was the fact he didn't like it; didn't like it one bit. 

Of course there was always the window, sure, but he was getting too old to be just slipping out like a runaway child. Not to mention the fact that there were surely scores of angry O’Driscoll’s looking to beat the shit out of him just beyond these walls. 

Not that it worried him; he could take them on and would  _ happily _ take up the challenge if Dutch weren’t here, eager to get on his case for even the slightest misstep; if Dutch weren’t just waiting for him to screw up again to prove it as some deep-set personality trait of Arthur’s. Dutch would want nothing more than proof that Arthur really was out of control. It seems as though he was thoroughly convinced that Arthur was doing all of this intentionally. 

He  _ wasn’t _ .

Regardless of what Dutch might assume, he wasn’t  _ trying _ to upset the man. He was simply doing what he'd always done, just with more...vigor, he supposed. Less caution. Yet it seemed that Dutch was upset by damn near everything these days and frankly that was absolutely insufferable. Walking around, tiptoeing as though he was on goddamn thin ice, hiding most of what he did lest Dutch completely lose it on him. 

He just wanted Dutch back.

_ His  _ Dutch.

The Dutch who only a few weeks ago was drinking gallons of whiskey and shouting garbled lyrics to a song Arthur could barely recognize. The Dutch who thought on the fly, came up with plans out of thin air— not this obsessive, brooding man determined to strategize  _ every single detail _ of their day. The Dutch who didn’t give a damn if Arthur started a fight. The one who would’ve instead fussed over Arthur with gentle hands, soothing every odd scrape and cracking jokes all the while. He wanted  _ that _ Dutch, the one who actually gave a shit about him.

_ His Dutch. _

Or… Maybe he didn’t. Something cold inside him shifted. 

It had been weeks like this. Weeks of Dutch greeting Arthur with suspicious glares and disappointed sighs. Maybe this was permanent. And if this was Dutch— if he was destined to suffer a man continuously disappointed in him, uninterested in anything besides his failures, demanding and stern, then maybe… maybe he didn’t want Dutch after all. 

He could’ve laughed. To not want Dutch— the thought alone made his chest ache fiercely. A strange, sickly feeling came with the ache... he wasn't quite sure of where it came from, but pushed it down all the same. 

Suddenly, he was overwhelmed with homesickness, or as close to it as he could get, having lived a transient life. He missed Hosea, perhaps for the first time since the man had left; earnestly missed him so much it hurt. 

He and Bessie… he wondered what they might be up to, wondered if they’d settled in someplace yet or if they, too, were still out searching. Knowing Bessie, the absolute powerhouse that she was, they’d be holed up someplace cozy already, sitting by a fire. She’d have dinner on; he dreamily reminisced about her chicken stew. Since they left, all Arthur had eaten was roasted whatever-they-could-buy-for-cheap, canned food, or whatever slop the local saloon had on offer. Dutch wasn’t particularly talented when it came to cooking, and Arthur wasn’t either. Bessie though? Lord, that woman could cook. He’d die a happy man if he could just drown in a pot of her stew. 

Hosea was distant, sure. Stricter, but the man wasn’t without warmth. Hosea had his odd quirks and minute habits, sure, but Arthur had quickly grown used to finding comfort in those lopsided glances or quiet words. Hosea had grown fond of him, too, proving himself a boisterous man overflowing with kindness. Surely he and Bessie sat now, wherever they had ended up, curled together, telling embellished tales and filling the house with laughter. 

Arthur wondered if he’d be welcome in such a place. He could find them, if he tried. They’d left a map, marking where they’d go, the places they’d visit out east. He could take off, track them down. Join them by that lovely fire, share in their stories, their laughter. 

But would they even want him there? 

The thought hit him hard, stilling his blood. Would they want a grown man, so dull and angry as he had become, souring the mood and spoiling the house; surely that was precisely what they were trying to escape from. 

Arthur’s breath hitched at the thought— at specifically the idea of him being  _ grown. _

He was grown, wasn’t he? Well grown; twenty-one, by his count, though he couldn’t be sure of it. Years on the street had stolen even that from him. 

He came to a resolution, then and there. Thoughts stirred in his mind. A solution to his many woes; a way to earn back Dutch’s favor and keep a place at his side. A way to rid himself of the O’Driscolls, to show Dutch the others weren't needed; they were a risk they didn’t need to take. But most importantly, he'd prove himself a different man than his father had been. To prove he was more than a useless child. 

The Wiley stage would be filled tomorrow. Patrick had said as much— the valuables being packed on were more than worth his while. The stage would leave in a few days no doubt. By then, Arthur would be sure that he and Dutch would be far away because when the time came to run the job there simply wouldn’t  _ be _ a job to run. 

Coaches were dangerous. Unpredictable. But ultimately, a stage was a stage. He’d taken them before and could do it again— only this time, he’d do it alone. 

Proof that he wasn’t just some stupid, angry kid for Dutch to order around; proof that he could run with the best of them, and make plans of his own. Proof that he was deserving of Dutch’s respect. 

That after all these years they were equals, whether Dutch liked it or not. 

And god, he could just imagine the stupid look on Dutch’s face— despite his aches and pains, Arthur felt a grin spread across his features as he quietly plotted in his mind.

The next morning, he was up before dawn, hastily wrapping himself in his coat and stuffing his feet into Hosea’s old winter boots. Dutch was already up, sipping coffee in silence, watching Arthur ready himself. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, and lord if that didn’t rub Arthur the wrong way entirely, reigniting the prickly remnants of anger leftover from the evening before. 

He set a glare on his face as he walked out the door. “Why the hell do you care?” he bit out, “I ain’t a  _ child. _ ” 

He stepped out into the bitter, bright morning, grabbing Atticus from the hitching post and setting out for the Wiley manor. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning mes petits amis ♡ 
> 
> Arthur's about to do something really dumb! But it'll be okay, cause he's got a plan! 
> 
> Also! This fic just reached 1k hits! Thank you all so much for reading, and double thanks to everyone who's left a comment! Y'all know I've been stressed as hell lately, and writing has been keeping me sane. It's nice to know it's keeping you guys a little sane, too ♡
> 
> I'll see you on Thursday, friends. Love you ♡♡♡♡


	14. I. XIV

Snow bit into his skin as he laid belly-down in a thicket beyond the manor walls, binoculars carefully watching the movements of those inside; he wasn't quite sure what he was looking for— all he knew was that he'd seen Dutch and Hosea do this before, so there must be some reason to it. Recon, they called it, or sometimes scouting— he honestly didn’t know the difference, nor did he particularly care. He buzzed with anticipation.

It wasn’t his first job alone— he’d been robbing like this since he could walk— but it was his first time snaking a job from someone else; his first time taking a stage without backup. 

His first time pulling a job behind Dutch’s back.

The stage in question was kept in a barn on the east edge of the sprawling property, a ways back from the main house. The doors were shut tight, but the few glimpses he’d managed to get only excited him further. He had seen the attendants checking everything, preparing it for it's journey; most importantly was the fact they kept fussing in particular over a small black chest kept tucked under one of the seats. 

A jewelry box, judging by size, though he’d never in his life seen one so fancy. 

There weren’t horses though; he wasn’t sure where the stables were, which, admittedly, would make stealing the coach a lot more difficult. Atticus was many things, but he certainly wasn’t strong enough to pull such a large haul by himself, and Arthur had never hitched horses to a stage. Hell, the most he’d ever done was to cut the straps and set them loose after robbing the driver and passengers alike. 

There were guards, too, and plenty of them, standing around carefully watching for any signs of trouble. Too many for him to take on alone, at least all at once. Between the guards and others milling about, he’d have to be particularly careful not to get spotted— a difficult task, given how his red winter coat stuck out amongst the sea of servants, groundskeepers, and watch-dogs wearing all black. If he’d known there was a damn dress code, he might have worn something a little more appropriate. 

So a change of plans… not that he had necessarily expected it to be quite so easy as strolling up and riding off with the damn thing. He’d need a distraction, something to pull folk away from the barn with the stagecoach long enough for him to get in, take what he could, and get out. Arthur clicked his tongue, calling Atticus from where he’d wandered off, impatient, though it took a second for the horse to realize the call was for him. The Goliath lumbered over, allowing Arthur to pull the saddlebags from his back— another trick he’d picked up from Dutch and Hosea. He’d fill these to the brim and get out quick as he could. 

First the distraction. 

Those weren’t particularly easy to come by these days, not when he was alone more often than not. Arthur fished around in his satchel; there wasn’t much there. A few dry crackers, a spare pair of gloves, and some peppermints for Atticus… Not exactly distraction material. 

Again, his eyes swept over the manor grounds as he absentmindedly chewed on a cracker. One for him, one for Atticus who had nosed his way to see what he had and slobbered all over his fingers while trying to pry open Arthur’s grip. 

He wasn't one for plans; that was Dutch's forte – and well, he wasn’t keen on turning tail to ask him now. He'd have to figure this one out on his own. That was the whole damn point, after all. 

He  _ could _ bloody himself up, cause a commotion that way, and slip away while others looked for the imagined threat in the woods. He could perhaps seek out the stables and set the horses loose, though he imagined those as well would be guarded just like the stage. Fancy place like this? Well for sure they had some fancy draft horses like friesians or warmbloods. Probably had their own personal guards, come to think of it. 

His eyes fell upon a lantern, newly lit as one of the servants strolled the property, preparing for nightfall. The girl— he assumed she was young, given her stature— flitted about with a lit candle in hand, so small she needed use of a hook to bring down each lantern and hang it again. Arthur’s mind chewed through an idea.

He’d spotted an old woodshed at the edge of the property; the thing was rickety and rotten through, but he’d definitely seen a lantern hanging from its eaves. The girl would reach it soon enough and Arthur would… well, he wasn’t sure. He couldn’t shoot the damn thing without setting off the guards. He couldn’t smash it by hand either— not without baring himself to the manor. 

So… rocks. He’d throw rocks. Not the most elegant nor technical of ideas, but he wasn’t the most elegant nor technical of men. The very beginnings of a plan budded in his mind as he dug through inches of snow and ice to find any sort of stone he could reasonably wrench out of the ground. The dusting of pine needles hidden under the blanket of snow served him well, insulating the ground enough that he found no fewer than four decently sized rocks, each jagged and heavy in his palm. 

A smile swept over his face. 

The girl lit the lantern and replaced it, moving along to the next without a second thought. As she wound around the corner, Arthur crept in, having to remind Atticus thrice to stay put. Remaining safely hidden in the pines, he hurled the first rock from the very edge of the thicket. 

He was, if anything, a good shot. Gun or no, he always hit his target. There was a swell of pride there, for a moment.

The lantern exploded angrily, casting drips of flaming oil over the desiccated wood. Within moments the fire spread, consuming the siding. Arthur scrambled deeper into the woods and watched as the flames lit the manor, drawing attention as they roared and grew. 

And he watched as the lantern girl dropped her candle and hook with a shriek, running off towards the manor. He paid no mind to the chaos, at least not until, out of the corner of his eye, he could see the glow of embers. Smoldering sparked in the stack of firewood beside the barn where the stagecoach was kept— a fire that went unnoticed as the old woodshed was swallowed in a far more impressive blaze.

Which... was less than ideal. 

Panic thrummed through him, accompanied by a chorus of curses and swears. Arthur blindly tore through the forest, ignoring scrapes and scratches from snowed-over brambles, damn near throwing himself into the barn without bothering to check for others lurking inside. 

Fire was good. 

Generally.

It hid evidence well, and if Arthur had been in his mind enough to think such things he might have realized that a fire destroying a few valuables was just what he needed to keep folk from realizing he’d been there at all. He might have even recognized that he could escape in the ensuing chaos of a much larger burn with ease. 

But he didn’t think of that in the moment. His lack of experience clearly showed through as he fumbled, coming up alongside the stagecoach, slamming the barn doors behind him, his panic growing in tandem with the flames. 

He did his best to ignore it; focused instead on tearing open the coach and shoving as much as he could into Atticus’s saddle bags in a mad rush as smoke sifted into the barn, filling the air as the fire outside spread only further. His ears rang. 

The jewelry box first, then fistfuls of whatever else he could find. His heart thundered; excitement, worth, pride and… 

The flames outside licked up the walls of the barn. 

The heat spread. Arthur felt the air warm uncomfortably. 

His lungs hurt. He fiddled with the clasp of the saddlebag— it just wouldn’t close, wouldn’t fit— his teeth grit uncomfortably tight. A bead of sweat rolled down his cheek. 

Thoughts— thousands of them— stampeded through his mind. His hands shook. 

Fire gnashed and tore through the first of the boards, creeping inside with unmatched ferocity. The shouts and hollers from beyond the barn wormed into his ears but damn it, he just couldn’t get his feet to move.

Arthur tripped, stumbled back, eyes wide, set on the edges of flame that dug into the wall of the barn, charring it black under its touch. He huddled there, against the wall, watching with glassy eyes. His breath came quick; uneasy. 

And he felt so, so very small. 

He was ripped away in that instant, dropped back in the worn old shoes of a child watching the devil reap what his father had sowed. Again a boy, torn between following quick after his screaming daddy and saving the few pieces he had left of  _ her _ . Again with blistered hands and a soot-caked face, struggling to breathe, but he just had to find it, had to grab it, had to ignore the bite of fire on his skin because  _ this _ was more important. 

He only realized those days were long gone when someone hauled him to his feet and slammed him hard up against the wall. Arthur bit out a mangled scream. 

A fist connected with his jaw.

He hit back harder; desperate. Something gave way under his blow and the one that followed left the attacker a crumpled heap. He stumbled, coughing against the thick, rising smoke, feeling his way out of the barn and into the open air.

His ears rang fiercely, broken only by a dismayed chorus of shouts. 

His feet churned through the snow as quickly as they could, carrying him quickly enough that one misstep might mean his end. His heart pounded painful under his skin. He whistled for Atticus, hoping the inferno hadn’t spooked the steed too badly, but didn’t stop running. Not as shouts drew nearer, and not as shouts turned to shots. 

Atticus burst forth from the thicket of pine trees, agitated but loyal the same. Arthur had only managed a single foot in the stirrup before more gunshots and shouts burst by him, closer this time.

Atticus let out a heart wrenching squeal. He skittered back a few steps, terrified, before collapsing into the snow, a bloom of red set beneath him. Arthur, too, found himself off-kilter, tackled to the ground by an unseen enemy, a sudden ache consuming his thigh and spreading quick.

He fought, he bit, he spat, Atticus’s miserable, final cries only fueling his desperate struggle. 

A hand reached down and grabbed him tight by the collar, hoisting him with ease, though Arthur couldn’t quite manage to get his feet under him. 

He cracked open an eye he hadn’t realized he’d ever shut, face to face with the stern, steady frown of Odhran O’Driscoll. 

Arthur’s gaze rolled over to Atticus, still writhing, still overcome with pained throes. Then down, to the smoking gun in Odhran’s hand. Odhran, too, let his glare slide over to Atticus for but a second. In the next, he’d lodged another bullet through the beast's eye. Atticus quieted for good. 

The grief Arthur should have felt was wholesomely overshadowed by absolute petrifying fear. The Wiley Manor continued to burn in the background. Odhran stared down at him, holstering his gun as other O’Driscoll’s approached, a sea of green and black. One had Arthur’s saddlebags slung over his shoulder.

Arthur swallowed back against the nausea that budded in his chest as Odhran spoke, voice cold and bitter:

“Why don’t you and me have a chat, boy?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, you guys! Odhran's got him! Arthur's safe and sound :)


	15. I. XV

Judging by the way his muscles burned and the blood seeping from his leg had grown sticky and slow, Arthur guessed it must have been hours, maybe days that they’d been walking. He wasn’t sure. Time didn’t mean all that much anymore; the only meaning he could find was in each stumbled step, in the burn of his lungs, in the rope taught around his neck. 

He was lucky. It hadn’t been more than a nasty scrape along his thigh, painful though it was. Though he was thoroughly bruised and beaten, he’d survive. 

Or more accurately, he was certain his  _ wounds _ wouldn’t kill him, though the bone-deep ache that had settled into him suggested otherwise. 

Odhran dragged him along behind his horse all the way back to a small encampment in the thickets near the manor. It was still dark. Arthur could make out the hastily erected tents and circled wagons only by the glow of the fire; nearly a half-dozen O’Driscolls milled about, not including the small army that had stayed at the Wiley manor. 

A small whimper escaped Arthur’s parted lips as the colorful swears he’d been spitting for the last however-long-it's-been finally died down. 

“Boys!” Odhran hollered as he dismounted, catching the immediate attention of everyone in the camp, “Gather round, if you will. We have a guest.”

With a sharp yank on the rope, Arthur tripped forwards, falling hard on the ground without hands to catch himself. He struggled to his feet, trying and failing to keep a nasty glower on his face, only to be pulled down to the dirt once more.

“That Dutch’s boy?” one of the men asked, eyes wide as saucers.

“Fuck off,” Arthur bit, voice hoarse, “You cowards, mangy fuckin  _ shit-for-brains _ —” another sharp yank on the rope, cutting only further into the ring of burns around his neck, choked off the end of his thoughts.

“This little  _ rat _ cost you all a pay day,” Odhran began, “Fucked that Wiley job up while trying to take it all for himself, and after we so  _ graciously _ forgave him for assaulting some of our own. I figured you all might take exception to that— I know I did. I’ll have to chat with Van der Linde later but— ”

“Dutch—” Arthur choked out, awash with panic and fear, “Dutch aint— got nothing to do with his, he didn’t—”

A boot connected with Arthur’s jaw. Odhran hadn’t offered even the slightest of warnings. Arthur was left sprawled out, gasping for air, trying to blink the white from his eyes and shake the ringing from his ears. 

Odhran gripped his chin horribly tight, pulling his face in close. “Don’t interrupt me _ ,”  _ his breath was painfully hot and foul on Arthur’s cheeks.

His eyes welled with tears; he felt inexplicably small and helpless in Odhran’s iron grip. Odhran dropped him again; Arthur curled in on himself slightly, all pretense of courage melted away for a moment.

“Now boys, you know what we do with rats, don’t you?” 

Odhrans face pursed into a heavy, dark frown. His eyes scanned the gathered crowd; his men shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. Perhaps it was that they feared stoking his ire by speaking out of turn themselves, or maybe they just knew what was coming and were unprepared to do such things to a creature so pitiful and shrivelled as Arthur. Whatever it was, Odhran waited only a beat before answering his own question:

_ “We drown them.”  _

That was enough to reignite the fire in Arthur’s belly. He kicked out at the O’Driscolls who grabbed at him and pulled him to his feet. His heels dug hard into the dirt, into the ice. He shouted expletives as they dragged him through camp to a frozen-over horse trough.

A hand woven tight in his hair plunged his head beneath the thin layer of ice and into the water below. 

Realization was slow at first, then noticeably fast. His thoughts swirling, too quick for him to grab hold of. All he knew, for the moment, was pain, sharp and deep, gripping him, piercing through his flesh and stinging his skin as the icy water enveloped him. 

Arthur fought; of course he did. He didn’t know how to do anything  _ but _ fight. He supposed that’s what got him here, held in place by a veritable swarm of O’Driscolls, hands gripping and tearing and pushing, no matter how he resisted.  He thrashed in their hold; the grip forcing him under lessening for a moment as he kicked out. 

He broke the surface, pulling in a guttural gasp. A distressed whimper, meant to be a vile curse instead came as nothing more than a simpering mewl. Clumsily he sucked in another desperate lungful, wild and frantic, hands still pinned behind him. The world was loud and nauseating; he fought the urge to vomit. 

He had to get loose, had to get free and go back to Dutch. He wiggled and writhed under unseen hands for a moment, barely managing one extra string of expletives. 

More hands on him. Again, he plunged under the water. Darkness threatened to choke him. His limbs flailing as he tried to right himself, to get above the surface once more. His mind screaming at him, his lungs burning. He'd cry, he was sure, if possible.

A brief wash of light hit him, even the dull glow of the campfire blindingly bright, and he found himself coughing and retching as he struggled for air. His curses didn’t come,  replaced by apologies, pleas for forgiveness, cries for mercy as they again and again forced him under, giving him bare moments of reprieve. 

Cries for Dutch.

These small mercies grew further between. His limbs grew weak, his fight sluggish and heavy. His ears rang, but he could damn near feel the chortles and amused bellows of laughter from the O’Driscolls. 

They submerged him once more, his face colliding painfully with the bottom of the trough. He gasped in pain— yet another mistake to add to the list of grievous errors he’d made in the past day. Frigid water raced up through his nostrils, cascading down the back of his throat, leaving a burning sensation in its wake.

There was a lesson to be learned from this, he was sure of it. If he could only see past abject panic and bone-deep terror, he might even figure out what the lesson was. But for now there was no lesson; there was only the slimy bottom of a horse trough pressed against his cheek and stagnant, icy water filling his mouth. 

A sense of anguish, more so than pain, flooded him as the commotion and chaos of his panic subsided. Hearing, for a moment, the racing of his heart. The pounding nothing more than a low hum in his ears. Thoughts, scattered and broken like the ice above him, drifted in his mind. A strange, calmness, washing over him. The fear gone; rather, in its place, he found something comforting. Something he could embrace.

The darkness slowly, gently, blanketed over him.

He thought about Dutch. 

Dutch, who had no idea anything was wrong. He had no reason to go out looking— shit. He didn’t even know where Arthur had gone. Dutch wouldn’t be coming, no matter how desperately that little voice in his head wished it. No matter how desperately he wanted to apologize. He wondered— briefly, for there wasn’t much left of him to spend wondering— if Dutch would miss him. 

He thought about Hosea. If they’d just listened to him, none of this would have happened. 

If _ he _ had just listened to him, he wouldn’t have had to fight with slow, aching limbs in a futile final act. Black dots creeped at the edge of his vision. 

He thought about— well, he wasn’t quite sure, as those thoughts drifted away just as agonizingly slow as he did.   
  
  


The boy had stopped struggling, kept upright only by the strength of the O’Driscolls holding him. Bubbles no longer broke to the surface. He no longer writhed and seized in their grasp, entirely slack. Lifeless. Odhran saw to it he was kept in place a minute more and no longer. 

He was thrown, limp, freezing and wet, to the ground in a heap of pale skin and boneless limbs. Odhran would allow him to recover. He’d see to it that the boy was coherent and breathing before continuing. After all, they had all night. The sun wouldn’t rise for another few hours still. 

There was a lesson to be learned from this and Odhran would be  _ damn _ sure to teach it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	16. I. XVI

He was pacing again.

Dutch just couldn’t help it; anxiety, anger, excitement, just about anything that required him to think set him pacing. It was a nasty habit, one he was often told served only to unnerve those around him. After all, for a man who worked so hard to excuse confidence and composure, a break in that was frankly unsettling and only worsened whatever disaster had unfolded. 

He supposed that didn’t matter this time— Arthur hadn’t come back. 

Dutch was admittedly still seething; the boy had really done it this time. Dutch had humbled himself in front of Colm in apology, thinking it best to put this behind them before the job. An offering of brandy— their last bottle— and an admonishment of Arthur was all it took to get Colm’s favor back. The two had spent the day drinking and reminiscing, on Dutch’s dime of course, with Patrick and the one of the other O’Driscolls that Arthur had so grievously wounded. Their faces were awash in bright blue bruises, swollen and broken, but they too seemed to bow under the pressure of booze and forgave Dutch just as easily. 

He’d returned, pleasantly buzzed, that evening to an empty room. Arthur needed time to cool off; the boy had never taken well to being chastised. Dutch knew that. He’d return in his own time, quiet, the incident never to be mentioned again. 

But he still wasn’t back when the sun rose. Dutch awoke alone again; that irked him. He set about planning, pouring again over the map Colm gave him, marked out with ambush points, escape routes, and outposts. Dutch had added his own diagrams as well, contingency plans for him and Arthur, should they need it. He would’ve liked to review all of this with him, but the morning came and went with no sign of him. 

He’d gone out only for an hour or so to check the usual places Arthur frequented— the saloon, the shops, and the jail. He had intended to drag the boy back by his ear, but found him absent. Atticus was nowhere to be seen either. If Arthur had gone to sulk in the woods, Dutch would just have to let him. He wasn’t as adept at tracking as Hosea was and frankly could care less if the kid got a bit of frostbite. It would serve him well. 

So Dutch paced instead. Waited for Arthur to return, growing only more frustrated as the minutes ticked by. They had a job to pull, planning to do, and Arthur instead was off throwing a hissy fit somewhere. He drafted a lecture in his head, something about responsibility, perhaps an echo from the other night in reminding Arthur that he was an adult and should act like one. He’d barely finished the prelude when there was a soft knock at the door. 

Dutch grit his teeth against the rush of cold that met him as he opened it, fully prepared to wallop Arthur for disappearing as he had. 

Only to come face to face with Odhran, unreadable as ever. 

“Found something of yours,” Odhran said, gesturing subtly to his men. Two stepped forward— the man had brought a gaggle along, and that fact alone set Dutch’s hair on end— and unceremoniously dropped Arthur at Dutch’s feet, hat and all, thoroughly soaked. 

Dutch stared for a moment, panic rushing through him when Arthur struggled to get his hands under him. The boy was shivering fiercely, sopping wet and frosted over. His skin was paler than Dutch had ever seen. He hadn’t even looked up at Dutch; hadn’t laughed off whatever danger he had found.

Hadn’t moved from where they deposited him.

The most he had managed was a nasty, wet coughing fit; one that set Dutch’s nerves aflame. 

Dutch’s body poured with adrenaline and fear, but Odhran’s stern gaze caught him. He stayed, desperately resisting the urge to put hands on his boy, to make sure Arthur was okay, to remind him of what an idiot he was. Instead he squared his shoulders, steeled his features, and met Odhran’s chilling rage with his own. 

“What happened?” Dutch asked, voice low. He saw, out of the edge of his periphery, Arthur slowly stumbled to his feet. Odhran hoisted the boy by his collar, forcing him to stand on clearly weak legs. 

“Your boy fucked us over, Van der Linde. Hope you don’t mind that I taught him a measure of respect.” 

Dutch had an idea of what that lesson entailed; he hoped the pallor that flushed across his face went unnoticed. Humiliation without a doubt, oftentimes punctuated with a physical beating. If the crime was great enough, they’d have hanged him. All things considered, he supposed they were lucky Arthur returned intact, that he hadn’t provoked them to the point of dismemberment or worse. 

Because with men like these, there was  _ always _ worse. They  _ both _ knew that.

They’d shown him mercy though— a gesture of friendship, no doubt, as they’d even gone so far as to return Arthur to him. Perhaps this, too, was part of his punishment— part of the humiliation he was now subjected to. Dutch tried to keep the pity he felt from showing on his expression.

Odhran shoved Arthur, allowing him to fall against Dutch’s chest. A sign of good will, surely. Dutch pushed Arthur behind him, keeping a hand tight around his arm. He could hear Arthur’s rattling, wheezing breath, even over the furious ringing in his ears.

“Go sit,” Dutch commanded, low, still making eye contact with Odhran though his words were clearly meant for Arthur. And Arthur did. 

Dutch set his jaw painfully tight, his words even and controlled, “Thank you for returning him. I’ll be sure to speak with him about this.”

“Please do. Oh, and we shouldn’t forget— his  _ take _ ,” Odhran pulled the ornate black box from Arthur’s saddlebags, slung over his shoulder. He stared past Dutch, ensuring the boy was watching as he dumped the box of ashes into the street, letting them muddy the snow at their doorstep. 

Arthur let out a fragile “Fuck”, hopelessly loud in the silence of Bulrush. 

“Hope it was worth it boy,“ Odhran sneered, offering a final, parting smile to Dutch, “See you around, Van der Linde.”

Dutch didn’t shut the door until Odhran and his lackeys had turned away and he could be sure they weren’t seeking some greater revenge. He rested his forehead against the wood, letting out a shuddering breath. His hands quivered. After a beat, he squared his shoulders, sucking down a deep, steadying lungful of air before he turned to face Arthur.

Arthur, who had taken a seat on the edge of Dutch’s bed, staring lost into the roaring fire. Whatever words he had planned died in his throat. Quietly, he thrusts whiskey into Arthur’s shivering grasp and wraps him in his coat, as well as the thick woolen blanket on his bed. Arthur accepted Dutch’s fussing without so much as a groan. In this light, Dutch could see the bruises, distinctly formed by human hands, that marred the boy’s body. His complexion stood out all the more, with freckles stark against snow-white skin. Arthur still dripped as ice melted slowly off of him. 

Dutch fought off the nausea, though it returned upon noticing the drying patch of blood on the boy’s thigh. It didn’t take a genius to realize what had happened. A bullet wound, if the split in his trousers was any guess. 

“Jesus Christ, Arthur…” Dutch hissed.

“You should see the other guy,” Arthur whispered, and he split into the weakest, shakiest grin Dutch had ever seen.

Still a grin though. Still a blatant disregard for what he had done; a dismissal of his actions, as though this all were some kind of fucking joke. As if his disobedience hadn’t nearly gotten the both of them killed. As if he hadn’t just spit in Dutch’s face and ruined their relationship with Colm and Odhran— for the O’Driscoll’s to resort to such violent measures Arthur truly must have fucked up. He’d managed to offend both brothers in the span of just a few days, even after Dutch had asked him to just keep his shit together for once in his goddamned life. 

And now he was grinning. 

He burned again with rage; anger, unlike any he had felt. If Arthur hadn’t looked so pathetic in that moment, shaking like a leaf and wrapped in damn near everything they had, he would certainly have throttled him. Instead, he balled his hands into tight fists and set about undoing the wounds left behind by Arthur’s own foolishness. It was about all he could manage, seething with anger as he was. 

It was a shit job, hasty and quiet, but he patched him up anyways. Arthur sat quiet and still, even stifling his own coughs, that fucking grin chased away by the anger on Dutch’s face, as he patched him up. Dutch ran a damp cloth over forming bruises and gently tended to the small scrapes freckled over Arthur’s skin as he saw fit. He bandaged the gouge carved out of Arthur’s skin by a bullet, a surely painful task that he undertook with far less tact and gentleness than he otherwise would have. 

Still, Arthur didn’t even complain, nor whine or shift. It was his own form of apology— compliance. 

It wasn’t enough. 

He knew, deep down, that such a thing, such obedience, was downright painful for the kid; that this was the best he could manage to atone for actions Dutch could only guess at. It still wasn’t nearly enough. 

When Arthur was, more or less, cared for, and some color had returned to his cheeks, Dutch stood and again took to pacing, painfully aware of Arthur’s eyes watching his every step.

“… What did you do?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning my darling little bean sprouts!!!
> 
> The CONFRONTATION! And Dutch is a DUMBASS! What more could you ask for? 
> 
> ... what's that? MORE angst? .... Yeah I can do that.


	17. I. XVII

Dutch’s voice was low and dangerous. Emotions brewed heavy within him like a tempest just below the surface of his skin.

Arthur simply blinked owlishly at him, mouth agape, unsure. Scrabbling for an answer, a story, something to make this go away, but Dutch wouldn’t let him. That anger was manifesting, growing ten-fold. 

He roared, “What the  _ fuck _ did you do?!” Louder, this time, enough to make Arthur flinch backwards. 

“Dutch, I—“ he faltered, failed, stuttering.

“You know what?” he breathed suddenly, voice strained. He pinched the bridge of his nose hard, waving Arthur off, “I don’t care. I don’t.”

And he didn't. For once in his life, he  _ didn't _ care. All he could see at that moment was what could have been. What might have happened. What did happen. Every fucking thing that had been spoiled because of  _ him _ .

“You— you goddamned child—“ Dutch spat, shouting again, “I asked you for one thing.  _ One fucking thing, _ Arthur. All I asked of you was to keep your damn head down, and not fuck this up for us, and you couldn't even do that! I asked you to stay put, and what do you do? You run off on your own, damn near get yourself killed, and what did you get out of it?”

“Dutch— ”

_ “Nothing!” _ he screeched, his voice cracking, throat near raw. His voice, echoing off the walls around them. Damn all discretion, they were well past that and he was seething; all his pent up rage and frustration that had been building since the day Hosea had told him he was leaving. All that misguided anger now pouring out after weeks of holding it in. Everything he'd meant to say, and even things he'd never meant to address at all, boiled to the surface. He couldn't stop the next words even if he wanted to. “You fucking useless bastard- you any idea what you've done? What could have happened? What could  _ still  _ happen?“ 

Dutch’s heart thundered in his chest. Racing a thousand miles away, drowning out all reason. Arthur could’ve died. He could’ve died, and Dutch wouldn’t have known about it. Wouldn't have had a clue. Arthur could have died. 

“Its— they had a lot of money, Dutch!”

“Course they did; why the hell do you think we was planning on hitting it? Can't do that anymore, no thanks to you—” 

“I thought—“

“You  _ thought?” _ he wondered, indignant. Aghast and unbelieving.

Arthur  _ clearly  _ didn’t trust him; this, if nothing else, even if all past transgressions could be forgotten, was more than proof enough of that. His thoughts raced faster than he could keep up. In lieu of the lengthy speech Arthur had earned, those thoughts manifested in Dutch; dark and gross and difficult to hold. His fingers curled into a fist as his limbs shook, pointedly turning away before he could follow through with the threat. Instead he found his fist driving into the mirror. Shards of glass crumbled to the floor around his feet. 

He couldn't even register the pain, though he assumed it was there, watching his knuckles drip with blood. It didn't do much to deter him, his voice thick and guttural as he went on, unperturbed by the hitch in Arthur’s breath. He barely even noticed the way Arthur had stilled. 

“Since when have you  _ ever  _ done the thinking? We both know that you are  _ not _ the one meant to do the thinking, you  _ moron. _ If you did, we’d be long dead by now!” Dutch barked, breath quick; too quick. “You fucked up for the last time, Arthur!”

“I fucked up?” Arthur wondered, pushing himself to his feet. Still weak, still shaky, but underneath that fatigue was a new rage, boiling beneath his skin. “You've been fuckin' up every day since Hosea left!”

“They could set the law on us!” he screeched, ignoring that latest insult. “Hell, they may even see fit to come themselves and finish what you started! You think we can take them on? Have you lost your goddamn mind?”

“I was tryin' to do what we've _ always _ done,'' Arthur snarled back at him. “We've taken stages on our own before, Dutch. We ain't need the O'Driscolls— they’re  _ bad news. _ I know it, Hosea knew it— You the only one who's too fuckin’ dense to see it!”

“This isn't about the  _ O'Driscolls,” _ Dutch growled, “This is about _ you, _ and what  _ you've _ done.”

“What  _ I've  _ done?” he shook his head, “Shit— Dutch, I thought I was  _ dead! _ Yet you’d still rather sit here and scream at me, instead of standing up to those fuckin  _ psychopaths! _ I did what you woulda done, if you was even halfway in your right mind! Hell, the Dutch I know woulda gone out and seen to it that every O’Driscoll within ten miles got what was comin’ to him!”

He was done. Done with the half-baked lies. Done with the insubordination. Done with  _ him _ . Him and his unruly attitude. He wasn’t angry. He knew that. Well, at least he wasn’t just angry. He was terrified.  _ And Arthur didn’t get it.  _

“That is  _ enough,”  _ he snapped. “When are you going to get it through that thick skull of yours? You think you know what you are doing but you are  _ sorely _ mistaken. I've been doing this for  _ years _ . All the while you've been doing god knows what— You think I don’t notice every single time you come back bruised up and reeking of whiskey? And after all this time, after  _ all _ I've done for you, all I want is for one fucking thing-for you to listen to me. How hard is that for you? Huh? I know you might well be the biggest fool alive, but even you can manage that— ”

“Oh, here you go again, actin’ all high and mighty. Christ, almost feels like Hosea never really left after all! Well,  _ boss _ , let me tell you— if I was lookin for someone to sit and shout at me all day instead of getting off his sorry ass and realizing that he’s been nothing but a miserable motherfucker for the past goddamned months I mighta just gone with him! _ ” _

Dutch stared at him for a moment. The weight behind that word sat heavy on his chest. There was nothing to say. Nothing for him to do if Arthur refused to listen to him. If Arthur truly, wholly refused to heed even the slightest of warnings or the most dire of directions, what was left? 

“I ain’t Hosea— but damn it, Arthur, someone has to keep you in line before you get both of us killed!”

“This…” Arthur gestured widely, “ _ This _ is why he left! You’re tryin’ to be two goddamned people at once, when right now you miss him so bad you ain’t even  _ one _ person!”

“He  _ left _ because he couldn’t handle this lifestyle,” Dutch bit back, “And I’m startin’ to think you can’t either!”

“I think maybe  _ you’re _ the one who can’t handle this shit, Dutch! Hosea’s gone cause he don’t want to widow his damn wife, cause he can’t be sure you won’t up and get us all dead some day because you refuse to see past your massive fucking ego, you bastard!” Arthur’s argument was disrupted by a peal of weak coughs, “You make stupid fucking decisions and expect us to blindly follow along like you know what you’re doing! You don’t Dutch— and you ain’t fooling anyone.”

That morose feeling grew out of control in his gut; Dutch felt awash in a bitter cold, radiating from that pit that formed quickly in his stomach. He’d told Hosea he could control Arthur; that he could keep the boy in line, that he wouldn’t fuck up quite so royally as he already had— 

“You know… ” Dutch spat, only slightly regretting it, “I had the  _ decency _ to keep it to myself— I didn’t want to say anything but clearly… clearly decency is out the window. He told me it was _ you _ , Arthur.”

“He… he what?”

“He told me, when I asked. Said he was leavin’ cause of  _ you.”  _

“I—“ Arthur looked, for a moment, genuinely hurt, unable to conceal the wounded look that slowly spread over his features, something lost and heavy, “... Right.” 

Arthur sucked in a half-breath, which caught painfully in his chest. Dutch pointedly ignored the wounded, wide-eyed stare that Arthur had set on the floor. 

“If I knew you’d act like this— if I knew you’d turn out like this— I would’ve left your sorry, scrawny ass to starve in that fucking  _ nothing _ town all them years ago.“

“…. Maybe you should’ve.” 

“You know what Arthur? I’m done. I’m just… I’m done. Just… go to bed.”

Arthur searched his face for a fault he would never find. He shook his head slowly; unbelieving. Arthur pushed past Dutch, not able to so much as look him in the eye as he did. He grabbed his hat from the stoop and set out into the snow.

“Fuck you,  _ boss. _ ”

Arthur vanished into the streets of Bulrush. Dutch didn’t watch him go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... That could have gone better...
> 
> Thus ends act 1! Act 2 starts on Sunday, and I'll see you all there! ♡


	18. Chapter II: Spring

**1877**

There were two measures by which Arthur could keep track of passing years: the weather— a given, though admittedly unpredictable at times— and the arrival of strangers. This small town in the southwest of Montana wasn’t a popular destination for tourists but as the world beyond developed and grew, folk used it as a stopping point as they passed through the area. They filtered through in spring, then again in fall. 

The weather had finally broken, warming up in the last week. The snow was more or less melted, leaving the roads a mess of mud and icy patches, and with it came the first vestiges of travelers. 

He assumed this horse was part of this yearly migration. The thing was brown and sickly looking, but taller at the shoulder than Arthur was over all. Its ribs stuck out, back bowed beneath the weight of the carts it had driven over the years. 

Arthur sat on the stoop of the general store watching the grizzled mare, head hung low. He could surely sympathize; two years trapped in these streets had done him just about the same; he, too, was bowed and sickly, stick-thin, with oddly sharp angles where his bones poked out from under his skin. Scarred, ignored, abandoned. 

But unlike this horse, he wasn’t content to submit. He wasn’t one to sit idly by and let himself waste away. 

Not that the horse could help it. There was a pang of something… soft. Unyielding. Arthur pushed from the stoop, grabbing a handful of newly-bared grass as he crossed the road, hesitantly offering it to the horse. Her velvet-soft nose pushed into his hand eagerly, nibbling at the weeds in his palm. 

He laid a hand on her cheek, stroking her coarse hair with reverence; the warmth of happiness, however small, bloomed in his stomach. That, more than anything, was hard to come by. It chased away the pain of the past two years on his own; two years fighting for his life every goddamned day on the streets. 

He was so lost in the feeling of his fingers carding through the mare’s fur he didn’t notice the older couple approach from behind him.

“Hey!” the man shouted, startling Arthur, sending him flinching backwards so hard he fell to the street. He scrambled backward for a moment, searching for the unseen threat. 

“Oh, Reginald! You startled the poor thing!” the woman with him chastised, smacking him hard on the arm, “Go help the lad up!”

Arthur eyed her warily; they both were well dressed, donning thick woolen coats without any holes and polished leather shoes. The man wore a pistol at his waist. Arthur clenched his hand into a fist as he approached, eyes set fast on the weapon hung from his belt. 

“Y-you okay, son? I didn’t mean to frighten you…” he reached down a hand. Arthur flinched back again.

Reginald recoiled, glancing at his wife for reassurance before approaching again.

Arthur kicked him hard. 

Hard enough that something gave under his foot and the man collapsed into the mud with a groan. His wife let out a startled cry, a desperate wail, but before she could alert the law Arthur had grabbed the pistol from Reginald’s side and pointed it at her wordlessly. She covered her mouth, hands trembling. 

He didn’t even have to ask, nor demand it from her again; she happily forked over her purse. Arthur ran off, ill-gotten gains clutched tight as she again screamed in anguish, collapsing at her husband's side as he pushed himself out of the dirt, swearing at Arthur’s back as he ran. 

Arthur scrambled into his little hideaway. He’d holed up in the back corner of the stables, in a small, inaccessible alcove behind a workbench in a shed no one used anymore. He’d pushed a board from the outer wall aside and replaced it just as easily; in here, he was safe and dry. He could keep his few possessions safe too; much safer than if he had to tote them around. Unseen, he sorted through his take from the day. He’d managed an apple and a stale roll from the shop, as well as what he’d stolen from the older couple. 

A gun was useful; it was empty, not more than a prop, but he could still rely on it for some measure of safety. Intimidation. If nothing else, he bet he could sell it someplace. 

The lady had about a dollar and a half, an amount that made his eyes widen. He hadn’t ever had quite so much money on him; his mind raced, wondering how it might best be spent. For now, Arthur tucked himself away, watching the sun fade through the slats in the wall, brimming with excitement and possibility. 

_________

Dutch damn near cringed at the sight of the town; run down, dirty, and small. The people lumbered around, filthy and sour, dressed in the most ghastly, matted garb Dutch had seen. They’d stayed in a lot of awful places; for whatever reason, this seemed to stand out amongst the ranks. He was happy to let his displeasure be known, though Hosea met his complaint with an eye roll. 

They hadn’t been in Montana in about two years; surely there was something for them to take. Surely, in those years, the state had swollen with opportunity, waiting for them to pluck the fruits of their absence. 

But right now, all he saw was dirt. Hosea didn’t mind though, slicking back his pale blond hair as he urged his horse into town. Undaunted, clearly, by the penury they faced. 

“You gotta be kidding me,” he groaned, tossing his head back for a moment, “Ain’t nothin’ here worth taking.”

“Desperate people, desperate times,” Hosea reminded him sharply, a hiss more than a whisper. Dutch, unfortunately, knew what he meant. People trapped in the dregs of despair and disquiet were often more willing to involve themselves in dubious matters, especially when they had something to gain from it; they were more willing to turn a blind eye to trouble that didn’t involve them. Here, they most certainly did, Dutch could see it on their faces. Still though, something about the town unsettled him.

He scanned; it was surprisingly busy for such a small place, full with travelers and passerbys, no doubt. They’d blend in well enough. That wouldn’t be a problem. 

What _might_ was the clatter of coins against the ground. Dutch turned at the sound, seeing a young, scrawny boy standing in the middle of the street, unmoving. 

Trembling. 

Fear had engulfed this child; his features were absolutely riddled with it. They lock eyes for a lingering second, the kid staring at him wide-eyed and terrified, as though he were looking at the devil himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning, muffins! Welcome to act 2! 
> 
> We kick off with the first (or... I guess second!) meeting of Arthur, Dutch, and Hosea. It's a brief little moment, but memorable all the same! 
> 
> Today's little wisdom: change is slow, but worth it. Keep working, dears, even if nobody can see your progress but you. Seeds grow roots first before they ever break the surface! 
> 
> See you on Tuesday my little butterscotch candies!! Stay sweet! ♡♡♡


	19. II. II

He left.

He left everything. Everything he’d gained over these past years— years he spent he spent building nothing into something— all of it was left behind. The past years were behind him, mere festering thoughts he tried to drown out. 

Dutch was sure to lose his mind.

Arthur couldn't muster any sympathy, even if he had wanted to. Far as he was concerned, the man could just fuck off.

But goddamn it, he couldn’t stay. Not anymore.

Arthur had expected the man to shoot the damn O’Driscolls then and there for daring to lay a hand on him. He had expected Dutch to finally wake up and realize that they were bad news— to do them in like they nearly had done  _ him _ in. A small, sickly part of Arthur hoped for it. He  _ wanted _ to see Dutch tear them apart; wanted to relish in the bloodshed. Wanted to know that the man still cared for him. He wanted, more than anything, for Dutch to grab him tight and assure him that everything would be fine.

But he  _ didn’t. _

Dutch  _ had  _ been furious, for sure. His face flushed and words stuttered, barely able to spit out coherent words. But that ferocity had been directed at  _ him _ , not at the O’Driscolls. The man hadn't even asked him if he was alright. No, instead he was too fuckin' concerned about the opinion of the greasy bastard who had hauled him back.

It hurt. Knowing that Dutch hadn't even cared… 

It was a small painful lesson he had learned but a lesson all the same.

There was nothing left for him here.

And so he left.

That had been weeks ago.

Arthur drank deep of the warming Wyoming air, feeling lighter than he had in months. He’d almost shaken off the nasty cough that had plagued him for nearly a week, with the help of a tincture he stole from some shoddy doctor’s office he’d passed by. His leg had healed, more or less, now an ugly, bubbled scar.

Those first days, once the anger had burned off, he was admittedly scared. The decision to leave was sudden, bordering on impulsive, but he couldn’t stand another second in that hotel room, arguing endlessly with Dutch about shit that didn’t matter. He didn’t know what would become of him; where he’d go, how he’d live, he just knew he had to leave. Soon enough though, those fears melted away, replaced with emboldened memory.

Memory of the miserable years he spent, starving, terrified, beaten and whipped, left for dead on the streets...that was ages ago; merely a residual fear, anxiety settled in his bones and nothing more. He survived. He lived, he made it out, and he did so by virtue of his own two hands.

He'd been nothing but a fragile child then. Years had passed; years in which he had learned to thieve properly, to shoot a gun, to hold his own. He wasn’t that cowering youth covered in filth, starving on the streets anymore— he could more than take care of himself.

Things had  _ changed. _

Without fuckin’  _ Dutch  _ holding him back, or Hosea keeping him in line, he could do anything, go  _ anywhere, _ and there wasn’t a damn thing  _ anyone  _ could say about it. There were no  _ rules, _ no  _ requirements _ , he could finally taste the freedom that Dutch and Hosea had promised him; the freedom they had kept him from. 

He'd done some reading, in these past trying weeks, searching for anything to pass the time, and he heard tell of a place with strange, rainbow-colored pools that smelled like death and how water shot out of the ground as if on cue. It seemed, to him, too far fetched to be true, but he reckoned that was where the best adventures were to be had, and he had it in mind to see it for himself.

Granted, he wasn’t sure where the hell he’d find such an oddity; he didn’t have a map, not that he could make heads or tails of one if he did. The poster said Wyoming, and how big was Wyoming anyhow? Arthur figured he'd stumble on it eventually— the first stop on his list full of nothing; a list full of all the things he denied himself in the name of  _ responsibility.  _

He pushed his horse a little harder— she was a odd little thing, a walker he stole from outside the saloon in Bulrush. He’d been calling her ‘Horse’, creative as that was, too caught up in his own bitter thoughts to think of anything better. But now, as his mind rushed with all the possibilities that came with freedom, he found that ‘Horse’ had stuck. So 'Horse' it was. The mare underneath him didn't seem to mind, ears perking each time he spoke, a gentle nicker whenever he stroked her neck. Of course, a few peppermints never hurt either.

He traveled, hitting up one small settlement after another, leaving most  of them devastated before they had any idea of what he had done. He knew how to lift a few wallets without drawing attention, as well as when to move on before suspicion fell to him. He knew how to avoid keen eyes, and when to put on an act, play up his drunkenness or his youth as it suited him. Hell, he even sold a few of his drawings; one night when a fella at a saloon saw him sketching and slid him a dollar, asking for a simple portrait to leave with his wife before he headed off to work in another state. Arthur did the best he could, but really it was easy money. He’d done that a few times, offering folks sketches of loved ones or pets in exchange for spare change.

Stealing was easier, though, so that’s what he did.

And life was  _ good. _

He got drunk his fair share of times, waded into nearby streams and rivers to scrub himself when his own stench became too much to bear, and grudgingly paid a barber to shave off the rats nest protruding from his chin when it became too thick and itchy. He spent most of those warming spring nights outside, under the stars, just him and Horse.

_ Free.  _

Sure, he went hungry some nights, when the roads were sparse and the pockets were bare. He had never been much of a hunter, but he didn’t mind. Since running with Dutch and Hosea, he’d filled out; the way he saw it, he had a few extra pounds to spare. Horse had plenty to eat with the grass finally growing high again, so he wasn’t worried about her either.

As night fell again, he sat in front of the fire he’d set, journal spread out in his lap as he scrutinized the pages one by one. Before him sat a collection of drawings of the animals he'd seen, a few plants; of course the odd note or two, speculations gone rampant in his mind when he found something odd. He startled slightly then as he felt a weight behind him, a smile melting over his face as Horse settled down, her warm flank pressed up against him. He reached out, fingers drawing through her mane, soft whispers on his lips as he leaned back into her warmth. 

This…  _ this _ was the life. No more stuffy hotels for days on end. No more dressing up in strange clothes, no more bizarre acts or scams. No rules, no rush. No responsibilities. No expectations.

And no more  _ plans _ .

Just him. Just Horse. Just the open road.

Arthur set his gaze deeper into Wyoming with no intention of ever looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goooood morning my little apple tarts! 
> 
> Arthur, on the run! Dutch... who knows, but not here! Horse, a horse! The thrilling beginning of Act 2 in which Arthur sets off on his own and just sort of vibes. A bit of a change in pace, but here we go! 
> 
> Today's wisdom: Don't be afraid to ask. Nobody ever got anything done by keeping to themselves! 
> 
> Have a wonderful day, lovelies! ♡


	20. II. III

He left.

And _ good fucking riddance.  _

He just _ left  _ without warning, without so much as a word saying _ if _ he’d be back, or when. Honestly, though? Dutch couldn’t quite bring himself to care. As far as he was concerned, Arthur could run all the way to goddamned _ Mexico _ if it meant he’d burn off some of this childish behavior. What the  _ hell  _ was he even thinking, going off on his own, trying to steal a job out from under them? He nearly got himself killed, and for  _ what?  _

Dutch quieted his thoughts with a shot of whiskey. Colm hurriedly ordered another round for them both, an arm wound around Dutch’s waist. 

He’d told Dutch  _ everything.  _

Well, he told Dutch everything that Odhran had told him— how Arthur was caught with his hand in the cookie jar, so to speak, and nearly killed a man when they went to save him. Dutch couldn’t apologize enough for the boy’s behavior, though he certainly tried. They taught the boy a lesson— they had to, for the sake of order; for the sake of their gang. Arthur had done the unthinkable— he’d tried to filch a job out from under them, and he’d almost gotten himself and others killed in the process. 

They  _ had _ to. 

And now they had nothing to do but to wait; Odhran was convinced that the Wiley’s would try again, assuming the fires Arthur set to be a freak accident. It had been nearly two weeks at this point; the snow had begun to melt away, giving rise to bright green sprouts along the roads. From what they could tell, it’d be soon. The Wileys had bought another stagecoach, built another barn, and again began their planning, unknowingly under the watchful eye of the O’Driscolls that had snuck in among their number.

If anything, Arthur’s mishap had only strengthened their place among the manor staff. After all, who would suspect someone with such tenure of being a spy? The O’Driscolls helped to put out the fires that nearly consumed the manor and in doing so ingratiated themselves to the staff. Hell, the O’Driscolls had raised the alarm to begin with, and they’d been the ones to bring to justice the maid thought to be responsible for setting those fires. Frankly, as far as the Wiley manor was concerned, those O’Driscoll boys were irreplaceable. That kind of trust was dangerous and rife with opportunities. 

Dutch threw back another drink. 

He’d stayed with the O’Driscolls, figuring it was for the best if he remained in place and saw the job to the end. With or without the back-stabbing _ ingrates  _ who had abandoned him, Dutch was determined to be successful and true to his word; loyalty, regardless of his inner turmoil. They’d welcomed him with open arms, as promised, and had essentially stuck him to Colm from the get-go— where Colm went, Dutch was to follow, the pair jeering and hooting all the while, ogling their potential prey with all the tact and subtly of a couple of drunk seagulls. 

The O’Driscolls weren’t all that bad. Certainly, they weren’t the devils Hosea had decried them as. They’d been understanding of Dutch’s plight— of Arthur’s disobedience. The O’Driscolls were disorganized and rowdy, but when called upon, they listened. And Colm and Odhran… Dutch bore witness to sides of the men he hadn’t yet known. Colm was ambitious, but more than that he was fiery, willing to take action where other men would first sit and wait. Odhran was respected; his methods seemed violent, but every single member of that gang admired him. Dutch couldn’t help but feel a little pang of jealousy.

Colm had even given him charge of a small group of men; not Dutch’s, not entirely, but men who would  _ actually _ do as they were told, at least temporarily. That's all this was, after all: temporary. Once the job was done, they'd split up and go their separate ways, as always. Dutch would leave, with or without Arthur, but he had no doubt the boy would come crawling back with his tail tucked between his legs sooner rather than later, hopefully with a better attitude and less of a chip on his shoulder. For now though, Dutch found himself invigorated by this small measure of power. 

Hell, in just the last  _ week, _ he and Colm had made more money than he and Arthur had in the past  _ months _ . 

This kind of loyalty, this kind of  _ obedience, _ was more than Arthur had ever given him. The boy was so determined to argue and fight that he never could just sit down to listen, even when it was blatantly in his best interest, too determined to fight him every step of the way. A defiance reserved specifically for him, it seemed. The bastard actually  _ listened _ to Hosea. Sure he'd complain, but whatever Hosea requested of him, he'd  _ do  _ it. Hosea never even had to raise his voice. Dutch could scream till he was red in the face and Arthur would scream right back, dig his heels in even more and stoutly refuse, but all Hosea had to do was  _ ask  _ and Arthur would fall in line. What utter  _ bullshit _ .

It unnerved him; the fact that Arthur was so pliant not to the man who pulled him off the streets, but the one who never wanted him there to begin with. He'd happily ignore Dutch to his dying days, but if Hosea so much as suggested something Arthur was all too eager to see it done.

Dutch took another drink, feeling his head swirl. Colm still chattered on beside him eagerly, bragging about… something. Dutch honestly wasn’t paying attention. 

“Anyhow,” Colm jostled him, “So there we is, right? It’s me, and Odhran, and Connor—“ 

Connor. The name was oddly familiar. Dutch erupted into a fond chuckle as memories bubbled forth; Connor was a cousin of theirs— a rowdy, bright kid. 

“Ah yes, how is the boy these days? I ain’t seen him around.”

Colm split into a crooked grin, “Ah, you know how it is. He fucked up a job, got a little too  _ chummy _ with the mark. Odhran and me, we made the decision to put him out to pasture, so to speak. Weren’t nobody’s fault but his own.”

He frowned at that comment, a twinge of shock hitting him, dulled out by the drink. Maybe he hadn't heard quite right...

“You... did him in all because he was knockin boots?”

“You gonna tell me you wouldn't do the same?” Colm laughed, downing a shot of his own.

He wasn’t sure, honestly. He’d like to think not, but it wasn’t something he was particularly concerned about. Hosea was loyal to a fault and would never step out on Bessie, and Arthur— well, he wasn’t quite sure what Arthur was, but he certainly wouldn’t do such a thing. Things were different in an honest-to-god gang though; he knew that. With all those people to look after, he was certain there were decisions to be made that he wouldn’t like making. Still he tried to think, tried to picture himself in grander shoes. Would he have done the same? Hell, he at least knew he had wanted to skin Arthur alive for all the trouble he’d caused, and that frustration still lurked in his bones, but  _ would _ he?

Dutch shook his head roughly. He wasn't thinking right; not with this many drinks in him. He chased away any further speculation with another shot as Colm went on.

“Anyhow— so there we is, three of us, ready to go chargin’ in, fixin’ to rob the place blind, when outta  _ nowhere _ , who’s gonna show up but that bitch from the night before. Now she’s gawkin’ at me, lookin’ like she’s about to start hollerin’, and oh, Odhran was glaring. Ain’t never seen him quite so mad. ‘Fore she could make one single sound, bang! He deals with it. ‘Course I’m all embarrassed, but it’s  _ his _ damn shot what alerts the law, so really it’s on him. We barely make it out alive!”

Dutch slapped Colm on the back, “Well, I can assure you I am no stranger to close scrapes!”

“Oh, I’ll bet you ain’t never had one that close! We still got the cash, and they was so busy hangin’ the fools that got themselves caught that they didn’t even notice. Odhran has never let me live that one down, no sir! But believe you me, I intend to make it up tenfold, make that old fuck hand the reins over.” Colm threw back a shot, slamming the glass down to the countertop, “ _ Ambition, _ Dutch. S’All that matters.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more!” Dutch hummed.

For a moment, he could almost forget the lingering irritation that itched in the back of his mind. There was something sweet in the thought of living a life where ambition was king; where his vision could be realized and disobedience came with consequence. Despite how Colm’s words, for whatever reason, sat ill with him, he happily allowed himself to steep in those dreams of power and wealth as he and Colm drank through the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning my darling little bumblebees! ♡
> 
> Dutch gets a new job! And so did I, actually! It's a cute little side-gig, but it'll look nice on my resume and I just wanted to share my excitement :D 
> 
> Unlike Dutch though, I'm not out here committing crimes. Or working with Colm O-fucking-Driscoll. Eugh. Hosea had better come back soon before Dutch REALLY fucks up... 
> 
> Thank you to everyone taking the time to read and comment! It really really means a lot to me, and each and every comment brightens my day like nothing else! See you Sunday, dearies!! ♡♡♡


	21. II. IV

Arthur damn near collapsed against the rotten wooden siding of that general store somewhere in the middle of nowhere. His breath hitched in a hiss of pain; it was a clean slice, luckily, a shallow split across his ribs. Barely anything, he assured himself. A papercut.

That bitch had got him good. He’d only tried lightening her purse a little— not robbing her blind, but rather subtly _borrowing_ whatever he could get his fingers around without her noticing. Oh, but she _noticed,_ and with all the speed and anger of a pit viper, she turned and got him with a dainty little knife.

Something in the recesses of his mind assured him that he couldn’t keep doing this. What _this_ was, he wasn’t quite sure.

Fuck, he hoped it wouldn’t need stitches because it surely wouldn’t get them.

He hadn’t quite picked that particular skill set up yet— Hosea and Dutch managed the first aid. Arthur was just there to put pressure on this, or bandage that, or hold him down— assuming he wasn’t the one to get injured, which he often was. Regardless, he didn’t have bandages, so he went with pressure, wadding up the end of his shirt and pushing it hard into his wound. It hurt, but the shirt eagerly sopped up the flow of blood which, in his limited experience, was good.

Arthur poked thoughtlessly at his ribs, distracted for a moment from the burn of sliced skin. It wasn’t as dramatic as he’d seen of himself, but still his bones stood stark where they shouldn’t. He should probably eat more, but eating required money. Or a quick sleight of hand— but hell, there wasn’t even anything for him to take from this godforsaken settlement; everyone else was just as hungry as he was. 

He tried hunting and realized the few lessons Hosea had given him that he’d only half listened to years ago weren’t exactly enough. The damn prey took off before he could get close, and he didn't have the means or know how to set a trap. He tried fishing, but that was a bust, not that he was surprised. Hosea always long scolded him that he scared the fish off just by being there and he was suspecting the man was right. Two damn hours standing at the river's edge had gotten him nothing but a half-eaten boot. 

Wilderness survival wasn't his thing—- it didn’t have to be, he was never gone that long, nor was he ever far enough from a town that he couldn’t grab a meal or a bed.

Oh, but he still felt the need to _go,_ even under that hunger, as well as the new assortment of cuts and bruises he was collecting. He just wanted to go. Where he’d end up, he wasn't sure— just west. He yearned to follow the sun; to escape the bitter cold of goddamned Wyoming and find a place where the sun would warm his skin. A place where the awful memories he’d formed in this godforsaken state were nothing but foul dreams. A place just as wild and untethered as he was, where the people were rich and stupid and the lawmen had no legs.

If he just kept heading vaguely west, he’d get there sooner or later, he was sure.

But even a dream as pretty as that was merely a temporary boon at best— a distraction, briefly keeping at bay that which had been building the entire time. Soon that wistfulness gave way to something worse, something cold; a sliver of fear, worked under his skin like a splinter he didn’t have the guts to mess with.

Everything comes to a head eventually, though, and Arthur found it a few nights later.

A long day of nothing. He’d spent hours watching the horses mill about a nearby ranch, drawing them as much as he wanted without worrying about Dutch chastising him for wasting time. After that, he spent the last few cents he had on whiskey; a sound financial decision, in his opinion, until some dumb bastard disagreed and Arthur had to put his head through a table.

There was something freeing in that; in not having to hide those urges anymore. He could fight and cheat and rob as much as he wanted.At least, until the law took notice and chased him out.

He ended up in the woods, sitting by a campfire realizing that he’d probably be shot on sight if he ever went back. He didn’t intend to go back; he didn’t even really know where the hell that town was, or what it was called, but backtracking wasn’t exactly part of the _plan_.

The exhilaration of freedom was gone, replaced by aches and pains and cold and hunger.

And he was _afraid._

The idea was frankly absurd because he knew there was _nothing_ to be afraid of— if anything, _he_ was the thing to be afraid of. He’d become meaner, quicker in these last years. Able. Still he couldn't shake that feeling, the distinct, overwhelming notion that something was very, very wrong.

There was guilt, too; the guilt of abandonment. The guilt of knowing, deep in his marrow, all the pain he’d caused, and the pain he was continuing to cause. The guilt of knowing his excuses had run out and now he was left with stark reality.

He’d run away. 

And he hated it. 

Maybe it was inspired by those years on the street; those long years spent dirty, ashamed of who he was and of what he had let happen. Maybe it was from before. All those thoughts crashed through him indiscriminately all at once. Thoughts of fear, of deceit, of failure and doubts and hunger and devils.

He hadn’t done much for his ma. All the love in the world hadn’t saved her, try as he did. His pa, bastard that he was, well… Arthur didn’t bother trying very hard then. Maybe he should’ve. Maybe if he had, eventually, his pa would’ve seen him in a different light, and would’ve come to love him. His pa could’ve changed; it wasn’t likely, he knew that, but it was possible. He’d run away from them, too. 

Arthur stared into the fire he’d built. His breath quickened painfully. Wind tore through the leaves above his head, biting through his clothes and down to his bones.

Those flames felt impossibly large, burning brighter and brighter still until he could do nothing but drown in that one particular memory that haunted him so viciously. He could still feel the blisters burnt into his skin, the heat of those things as he pulled them from the flames. Her things. His ma’s things, the only things he had left of her. His fingers curled into his palms; if he tried hard enough, he could still find the half-circle scar left from gripping her charred wedding ring too tight in his hand.

Absently, he thought of where that ring might be now. 

He could see _him,_ bathed in the firelight as though the heat couldn’t hurt him. Flames springing up on his command, under his watchful eye— the devil, Arthur was sure of it. He was sure.

He’d run then, too. 

His heart thundered behind sore, jagged ribs, louder in his ears than he ever thought possible.

He’d grown since then— he had. He’d become strong. Useful. He’d seen past that callous stare and found himself hopelessly smitten with the man beneath. Dutch was good; Arthur knew that for a fact. Impulsive, egotistical, and sadistic, sure, but good all the same. Yet still even after all this time that childish fear still festered, and good fucking lord did Arthur hate it. 

He was supposed to be better now. He was supposed to be strong, and free but here he was, cowering by a fire, unable to shake the flood of thoughts that rampaged through him, just like back then. Unable to provide for his own goddamned self, just like back then. Unable to shake himself of Dutch’s hold.

What a fool he was.

Slowly, unwillingly, he felt the vestiges of that freedom crumble through his fingers. He sucked in a deep, quivering breath, hoping and failing to calm himself even slightly. He was well and truly lost, it seemed, and floundering for it. That hardened, almost desperately quick, into something sharp.

This was _Dutch's_ fault.

The damn bastard. Arthur wasn't sure what was worse; the fact that he’d basically sold him out in favor of the O’Driscolls, or the fact he'd simply let him go without question. Who the hell did he think he was? Worse yet was the fact that Dutch was no doubt waiting for him to come crawling back and _beg_ for forgiveness. Like hell he would. He'd done _nothing_ wrong, so why was he left to suffer for it?

Like _hell._ Arthur finally had a lick of freedom and he was going to use it. He’d get rich, he decided, and show Dutch just how _useless_ he really was. He wasn’t going back. He wasn’t, no matter how badly he wanted to. He knew if he did, Dutch would be there with that same stupid look on his face, that same smug superiority, and he’d start in on his plans. On all the things they had to do, and the places that had to go, and how Arthur’s little _vacation_ ruined it. 

Fuck plans, fuck Wyoming, fuck _Dutch._ He’d be fine. He had to trust his gut, just like he had been. Instinct had gotten him this far, after all. This— this was just a bit of ill luck, was all. Things would turn around, they would get better. He didn't need help, he didn't need these awful sticky feelings, and he sure as shit didn't need Dutch.

He had to keep going for as long as he had to, determined to prove himself as more than a perpetual fuck-up. He had to prove that he could be fine. Arthur haphazardly snuffed out his camp fire, slinging himself onto Horse’s back and digging hard into her guts and racing off into the depths of the inky black woods, drunk on this new bloom of confidence and defiance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning you little spring chickens ♡
> 
> Arthur gets to thinking! Turns out our boy isn't quite the legendary outdoorsman we know and love... at least not quite yet. He's losing his mind out there, alone, but at least Dutch isn't there to make things worse, right? 
> 
> God, if they could just have ONE emotionally competent conversation, I'm sure they could fix all of this... 
> 
> Anyhow! I will see you darlings on Tuesday! ♡♡♡♡


	22. II. V

The letters sat heavy in his hands. 

They’d settled to the northwest of Valentine; far enough from the budding stock town to avoid the buzz of civilization, but close enough that Bessie could still venture into town alone if she so pleased. The mountains loomed behind them, stark white against the sky. They were near the Dakota river too, and spitting distance from Cattail pond; both swollen with snowmelt with more than enough fishing to be had. 

They’d carved quite a little life for themselves. A small house, warm and intimate, friendly faces to greet them when they ventured into town… Bessie had plans to start a vegetable garden once the ground thawed a bit more, and Hosea had looked into work in Valentine. They’d created something small for themselves, but it was exactly what they needed for just the two of them.

Hosea didn’t care for any of it, frankly. 

He’d set off on his own damn near each morning, venturing further and further into the wilderness with each journey, desperate for something of interest. Surprisingly, the monotony and quietude of domestic life wasn’t enough to keep his attention. He’d hunted damn near everything there was to hunt, pulled up just about every fish, snooped around in every store from Valentine to Rhodes. Hell, he’d already read every book he brought with him about ten times over. 

Bored of that, he fell back into old habits. 

That’s not to say he ever broke free of those habits. Honestly, he wasn’t sure he could. Sure, his actions were more reserved, his cons a little milder, the takes mere paltry sums he’d spend on gifts for Bessie, but the exhilaration was still there. Dampened by the measly effort required to cheat absolute _fools_ like these but there nevertheless. 

God, Dutch would have a field day here. 

Oh, but Bessie was _mad_. She was as mad as she ever got, which wasn’t all that mad, relatively speaking, but her forehead creased and her lip pouted out every time he came back with his takes. She’d scold him while admiring whatever he’d brought for her; sometimes something small, like a tin of candies or a pocket mirror, sometimes something larger, like a frilly dress or a fancy saddle. He’d promised, after all, that those days were behind them. Another brilliant con. 

And yet, bored as he was to resort to petty crime, he still hadn’t been able to reply to Arthur’s letters. He stared at them one more, sat by the fire staring at the boy’s handwriting, but not reading any of the words, nor again admiring the sketches Arthur had sent along as well. He knew them by heart already. 

“I know you are not leaving that boy waiting, Hosea,” Bessie tutted, giving him a gentle smack on the shoulder, “Hasn’t it been quite long enough? He’s going to get worried.”

“I know, I know…” Hosea sighed as Bessie’s arms slid around his neck, “I just…. I don’t know what it is, Bess. Feels like there ain’t words enough to explain— everything. Anything. Hell if I know.”

She hummed, knowingly. 

She loved the boy almost as much as she loved Hosea; maybe more, though she’d be hesitant to admit it in front of him. Arthur had filled a void she didn’t know needed filling, even in the short times they’d spent together. The boy melted around women, becoming warm and soft, not unlike that old standoffish street cat she had befriended in her youth. Lord did she hate leaving Arthur behind; had he been any smaller, she might have stuck him in her purse and stolen him away. 

And Hosea would have too. 

“Why don’t you invite him out?” Bessie offered, “Maybe it’s better to say some of those words in person, if they won’t come out through the pen.”

“He…” Hosea faltered. He searched for the right sentiment, wondering how best to phrase the thoughts that scrolled through his mind. He took a deep draw of air before settling on, “He won’t want to.”

“Why not? It ain’t all that far, summer is coming quick, maybe we can get him to spend the season with us! Ship him right back to Dutch before he realizes Arthur had gone!”

Hosea stared into the lines of the letter. No doubt those two had found their fair share of trouble, and surely they had brought out the worst in each other. Arthur’s letter spoke frequently of their time together; of Arthur and Dutch roaming the icy plains as they carried along their way. There was an inordinate fondness in Arthur’s words, a weight to them that only existed when he wrote of Dutch. A reverence, if Hosea had to call it anything, that unsettled him. Dutch was not one to revere; admire, certainly, but not revere. He’d spoken to Arthur on the subject before, warning him away before any real harm was done, urging the boy not to feed further into Dutch’s ravenous ego. Clearly he hadn’t listened. 

Not that Hosea was surprised in the slightest. He was, however, hopeful that this time together might do them both some good; soothe their fiery tempers a bit, perhaps foster a mutual understanding between them. He hoped, foolishly no doubt, that they’d quickly learn to handle themselves without him around to manage their outbursts. 

Those were only hopes though. Hosea wasn’t about to hold his breath. 

Heaven help him though, he missed Arthur sorely. In the past short years he’d warmed to the boy and found immeasurable joy in his presence. What he wouldn’t give to have Arthur come stay even a little while; to fish with him again, to take him hunting up north, to ride and tell tall tales just for one more night.

But Arthur wouldn’t leave Dutch— he just wouldn’t.

“Trust me on this, my love,” Hosea said with a chuckle, “Only way we’re getting Arthur out this far is if Dutch tags along too.”

“That Van der Linde isn’t coming anywhere near my house. Not now, not ever, you hear me?” Bessie warned, “He’s welcome to choke on a peach pit for all I care.”

He was inclined to agree. Hosea still burned with irritation, poisoned by those final moments together spent screaming their heads off. Dutch… He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen him quite so upset. Not angry— he’d seen Dutch angry plenty of times— but something else. Scared, maybe. Betrayed. Whatever it was, it hadn’t been good, and the pair had parted on atrocious terms.

But he missed him, too. Besides Bessie, Dutch was without a doubt Hosea’s closest friend in the world. Without him, without Arthur… he felt lost.

He folded away Arthur’s letters once more. Tomorrow, for sure. He’d reply tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning my little marshmallows!
> 
> It's Hosea :D!!! Living a peaceful, quiet life with Bessie! He's all nervous about sending letters to Arthur, and can you blame him? Seems like he's got some heavy words for the kid... Wonder what he has to say...
> 
> Figured since this is a little break from the action, I ought to check in with you all: How are you guys doing? And if you don't want to comment, take a sec to check in with yourself, make sure you're doing okay ♡♡♡ 
> 
> I'll see each and every one of you on Thursday!! Be good, friends! ♡


	23. II. VI

Wyoming was bigger than he thought, apparently.

It was also _lonely._

He really wished he’d brought a map. It’d been days since he’d seen another person. Longer, since he’d come across even the smallest hint of civilization— funny to think he might actually _miss_ society.

Arthur had exhausted himself quickly. The fire that had burned in him had dimmed, near extinguished by gnawing hunger and boredom. He kept himself heading vaguely west; everything he wanted was west and he was bound to run into it eventually.

A twinge of homesickness washed over him. Faint, but there. He hadn't been in a town for a while now, and even when he was there weren't many fools he'd talk to, and fewer who would talk to him. Christ, the way they _stared_ at him, those icy glares that echoed from his years on the streets, it fucking _unnerved_ him. He found soon enough he couldn’t bring himself to even make eye contact with strangers he passed while out on the trail.

So he was left on his own, left talking to Horse, at first carrying on a nonsensical monologue if only to keep himself entertained. It worked for only so long, his agitation growing. Eventually he took to imagined replies, anything to keep the silence of the road at bay and the growling of his stomach out of his ears. 

The last town he’d seen had been dirt fucking poor. Nothing to take but the teeth of one man who made a snide remark about Arthur looking like trouble. He beat the shit out of him for the thrill, though the victory was hollow. The man’s pockets were empty, like every other goddamned purse within a hundred miles.

Like Arthur's. He's long since run out of money; what paltry sums he had stolen were spent. His rations were gone. His satchel was empty. That had been a while ago, and he hadn’t stumbled across anything since.

He frowned in frustration, that desperate, hungry feeling festered inside of him, growing and budding and sprouting new limbs until it was all-encompassing. His words became harsh and cruel, directed at his own failings; admonishments for all the simple things he had so royally fucked up.

Eventually it turned to Horse as well, bubbling out in the form of an odd smack or a sharp correction. He felt guilty, at first, but goddamn nag wouldn’t fuckin listen to him worth a damn, and it seemed the only way to get through her thick fucking skull was to get mean.

Even still, Hosea’s voice echoed in his head, chastising him for his cruelty and asking him just how much he should like to be treated like that. Each time, something guilt-ridden would blossom through him and he would soothe her as best he could— tell her it was nothing more than a scratch, that he was sorry, that she was okay. That _he_ was the idiot, _he_ was useless, _he_ was wrong; _he_ deserved it.

Arthur hoped it would be enough to quiet the lingering remnants of Hosea that stuck in his head. God, he missed him.

These long days alone gave him time to think. Arthur regretted plenty about those last few days, just the three of them, but none quite so much as leaving the morning Hosea took off. He'd said he'd gone into town that morning. He had, but only to beat the hell out of the first guy who looked at him just a little bit wrong. Arthur wondered if Hosea had gotten his letters yet; if the man’s reply sat now in some mailbox in a town Arthur couldn’t hope to find anymore, unanswered until it was thrown away by a postal worker. He hoped his lack of reply wouldn’t worry Hosea.

He also hoped it would, just a little. He quickly pushed that aside. After all, all of this was his fault. Hosea left because of him; Dutch was angry because of him. Arthur was cold, alone, scared, because of his own damn stupidity. 

Suddenly Arthur was overwhelmed with that same, nagging sickness for a home he never knew. Tears burned in his eyes. He sat in that shade, Horse grazing nearby before continuing on, aimlessly. Arthur's face twisted in something sad; something desperate. He pulled his journal from his satchel.

Slowly, shakily, Arthur began to write.

He got as far as ‘Dear Hosea’ before he paused.

What exactly would he say?

_“_ _Dear Hosea, I ran off like a child and left Dutch alone with the O’Driscolls, even though you told me to look after him.”_

_“_ _Dear Hosea, I have no idea where I am or where I’m going, so you can’t reply to this letter, and I also don’t know where a post office is, so I can’t send it.”_

_“_ _Dear Hosea, I fucked up.”_

He crumpled the paper, tossing it off into the underbrush. Arthur groaned, curling into a tight ball.

“What the hell do I do, Horse?” he asked, voice muted and quivering.

Horse, being a horse, didn’t respond. Not even in his head. Arthur swallowed back against the bitter tightness in his chest. He unfurled himself and again scribbled down the words ‘Dear Hosea’, and again got no further.

He tried again, the words sitting on the page, staring up at him, mockingly. _Dear Hosea, I miss you,_ and he wondered if that was all too cliché, before he was struck by the realization that Hosea probably didn’t give a shit. Surely he was too busy with Bessie and his new, civilized life. Hastily he tore that out as well, barely aware that he was quickly running out of paper, the rest of the book filled with drawings he'd done in a fruitless effort to distract himself.

He drew in a breath, chastising himself. _Ordering_ himself to pull it together, as if he'd ever been good at following orders. He tried again, determined to make _this_ one work. On a new, blank page, he carefully scrawled:

“Dear Hos-”

And he stopped, suddenly, changing his mind. Working over the letters sloppily so that instead they read:

“Dear Dutch.”

Once again he stared at the words, the page empty just like he felt inside. Realizing that Dutch probably didn't care either. He'd probably long since moved on; found another child to take in off the streets. He could easily be two states over by now, laughing about the foolish boy who left behind the only good thing he'd ever had. 

He crumpled that page as well, slamming his journal closed. 

No one cared. 

And he couldn’t go back. 

He couldn’t. He could not _fucking_ go back. Not like this. Not a failure in every sense, having proved himself a child incapable of the simplest of tasks. He had to be a _man_ for once in his goddamned life; to prove himself useful, no matter how _empty_ it all felt. As much as he missed Dutch— and with the anger waning, that feeling only worsened— he refused to turn back, to scramble after the man like some pathetic puppy. He had to prove he was worthy to stand by Dutch’s side as an equal. He had to prove that he knew how to fight, and that he knew when to stand his ground. The thought struck him like a stray peal of lightning. This... this was all a _test,_ that's it. Arthur would have laughed at the revelation were he not still reeling from it. This was a test; from God, or the universe, or karma, or something. A test to show that these past years had meaning. That he had _learned._ A test to show that Arthur was worth something. 

Weirdly, that earned him a response. It was small, more a feeling than words.

Arthur needed to move forward. That's what Dutch and Hosea would want; it's what they would tell him to do. Move forward; stay the path, no matter how hard it was or how much he hated it. Grow up and take responsibility for himself, and prove that he could do what needed to be done and he could do it without Dutch and Hosea breathing down his neck.

He had to find meaning for this hollow freedom, and he knew just where to get it. 

Arthur nodded to himself, feeling the very bare bones of a plan form in his head, the realization that there was something he’d forgotten sitting heavy in his thoughts. A new list, one driven by sobering responsibility rather than by his whims, began to take shape. He scribbled each point into his journal, his letters wide and sloppy, and legible only to him. Satisfied with his work, he set about drafting one final letter, and this time he knew exactly what to say.

Within two days, he found himself standing in a small post office, asking for directions to Evergreen. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning, my little peach pies!!!
> 
> Haha, Arthur is losing it. But finally, he gets sick of life on the road and decides to find something to do. Dare we call it a plan? 
> 
> Forge your own path, little ducklings! Do your best in all things! I'll see you on Sunday ♡


	24. II. VII

Duke burst into the woods, chest heaving, froth at the corner of his lips, his muscles quivering from exhaustion, hide milky with the lather he’d worked up. Dutch was right there with him; he yanked the bandana from around his mouth, hastily gulping down huge lungfuls of the chilly spring air to soothe the ache in his ribs. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

It was done. For better or worse, it was done. They’d made off with the Wiley take; almost a month late, sure, but now it was finally over. A smile tugged across his parted lips, cheeks flushed red from exertion. 

He turned at the sound of hooves; Odhran and Colm drew their steeds to a stop.

“Well how about that!” Colm whooped, pulling his own mask from his face, “Told you it weren’t gonna be no problem!”

“You certainly did.”

“The boys will get the coach hidden and stripped by the end of the day, we’ll get your share to you by this evening.”

Odhran seemed entirely unaffected by what had just occurred; it unsettled Dutch in a way. Six men were dead, another two injured, and the job had dissolved into a full-blown war when the next batch of guards arrived earlier than expected. On the other hand, the take was theirs and if anything the extra time spent on this job meant there was only more crammed into the coach than anticipated. 

“You did good, Dutch!” Colm slapped him hard on the back, his hand lingering and curling into Dutch’s shirt. “Maybe next time you might even fire off a few rounds! I bet Odhran here will even teach you how to use them things!”

He had hoped Colm didn’t notice; Dutch had opted to throw his shots wide, not particularly keen on the idea of killing innocent coachmen for doing their job protecting some rich asshole’s shit. 

“Colm,” Odhran said, his tone dripping with venom and warning, “Why don’t you go catch up with your boys? Van der Linde and I are going to return to camp and toast to a job well done.”

Colm stared at Odhran for a moment, something frustrated and unfathomable flashing in his eyes. He said nothing though, again covering his face and digging his spurs hard into his horse, encouraging the beast to bolt into the woods beyond. 

Whatever thought had crossed through Colm’s mind at that moment, Dutch didn’t like it one bit. He was glad to see the man gone, for once. He quickly abandoned that relief when he caught up with what Odhran had said.

“I really ought to get back,” Dutch offered an easy smile, “I wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome anymore than I have already.”

“I wasn’t asking. The roads are too dangerous right now, and the law will be here any second. I ain’t saying you’ve got to stay, just lie low until this evening.”

Dutch was met with the distinct impression that Odhran wasn’t trying to have a conversation. That feeling sat strange with him, and remained the entire quiet ride back to the O’Driscoll camp. 

Oddly enough, the camp was quiet too. When it had just been he, Hosea, and Arthur, their camps were always alive with noise and activity. This one seemed almost… dead. Odhran brought Dutch to the very center, the pair of them alone sitting around the fire, sipping whiskey with few words shared between them. Two or three other men milled about, eyes cast to the ground, undergoing tasks that in the face of their actions today seems wholesomely meaningless. 

The victory was decidedly hollow. Try as he might to avoid those thoughts, inevitably his mind latched on to the reason why: Arthur was _supposed_ to be there. Dutch wasn’t angry at his disappearance; rather, he was disheartened. It was usually the three of them sharing a drink after a job well done. Arthur and Hosea would sit at his side, laughing and jeering and tending to each other’s wounds. They’d brag about things that didn’t matter, boasting about shots they didn’t make and achievements they definitely didn’t earn, blustering and one-upping each other to uproarious laughter. They’d talk about what to do with what Dutch liked to call the “taxes” of their take— a solid half of their earnings that they’d return to those who needed it. They’d sing, if they’d slipped the law well enough, or whisper sarcastic chastisements to one another if they still had to lie low. It was a _celebration._

This wasn’t that. 

This was a somber occasion; not mournful, not thoughtful, but somber all the same. As though this were just another drink shared between strangers.

Dutch missed Arthur terribly in that moment and in the next found himself missing Hosea just as sorely. He’d received a letter. A simple thing, just a few words scrawled onto a torn scrap of paper and shoved into an envelope. He knew it was Arthur only by the penmanship.

 _'Gone to Evergreen'_ it read. Dutch wondered what it meant. But there was time for wondering later. For now he faced Odhran, who snapped orders at men far more exhausted than he, commanding them around like animals in lieu of celebration. 

“I am sorry about your boy,” Odhran said, voice low, as though he could read Dutch’s thoughts. It wasn’t a genuine apology, not in the slightest— Dutch wasn’t sure what it _was_ though, and opted to study Odhran’s expressionless face for a hint at what the man meant. “You understand though. I can’t have my men seeing me looking soft. ”

“I understand,” Dutch sipped his whiskey. He didn’t. He hated the mention of Arthur, some lingering doubt and guilt still settled in his gut. It felt… dirty. Hearing Arthur spoken of by Odhran felt wrong. 

Still, Odhran wasn’t what he’d thought. Where once he saw a vicious, unreadable man, he’d been able to see beneath the surface. There lurked a man trying to keep order, a man trying to take care of the people who relied on him— to protect his people from those who would see them harmed. Vicious and cold, sure, but he was a leader, and damn it if Dutch wasn’t just a little bit impressed. He’d taken Dutch under his wing, bad blood forgotten, imparting lessons that he sopped up eagerly. Dutch wondered if this was one of them. 

“It’s for the best he’s gone off. I know it don’t feel like it right now, but believe me. You want to be a leader, you have to make tough decisions and know when someone has run their course. You can’t allow weakness. You’re still young, Van der Linde. You’ve got a lot to learn about how things work,” Odhran said, “Weren’t my place with your boy, but…If it were me, and Colm had pulled something like that behind my back… well… I would have put a bullet in his skull. You’re a merciful man, but if you intend to make any kind of difference, you can’t let them see that.”

“I disagree,” Dutch replied, and Odhran’s glare assured him that was the wrong answer, “I think mercy is the mark of a great man. You spare someone, offer them somethin’ better than what they’ve got, show them a little _humanity_ , and you got a loyal friend for life. Loyalty, Odhran. It’s the only thing worth anything anymore.”

Odhran laughed at that. He honest to god laughed.

“Tell me, when my boys listen to you, you think that’s loyalty?”

“I—”

“You think them heeding _your_ commands is anything other than a fear of _me_ ? They know the second they step out of line, they’ll get what’s coming to them, just like your kid did. There is no such thing as loyalty, Van der Linde. There is fear. That’s it. If you don’t have fear, you have _nothing._ ” Odhran tossed his drink, glass and all, into the fire, watching the flames spark up only higher for it, “What we did to Morgan, and what we will _surely_ do to him if he is ever so unfortunate to cross paths with us again— that is _something._ That is _real._ Trust me, you let them see the worst you can do, they stay in line. You let _them_ do it, let ‘em watch the life drain from someone’s eyes, watch them die a hundred times over, scared, _weak_ , well… they’ll follow you to the ends of the earth, lookin’ for a chance to do it again. Each and every one of these boys, they’re hungry to see someone beg and cry and piss themselves, just like your Arthur did, and they know _I’m_ the only one who can give it to them. _That’s_ power, Van der Linde. _That’s_ what matters.”

Painfully slow, a new train of thought agonizingly tore through him, tearing him down from the inside and leaving it its wake a distinct sense of nausea. Odhran sounded so sure. So definite. He spoke with such casualty that it took a second for Dutch to realize what had been said. 

Dutch stared at Odhran for a moment, his words sinking into his skin and sitting there, writhing beneath the surface. It washed through him slowly, ice-cold and bitter, that for all his talk, all his thoughts, everything he had ascribed to the men— ambition, loyalty, brotherhood— was misguided. He… he didn’t want this. He didn’t want to be the kind of man to see the lives of his people, his _family_ as disposable. 

Every stray word Hosea had ever uttered about Odhran slithered into his mind.

“You have a chance for greatness,” Odhran reiterated, “Don’t waste it trying to be something you ain’t.”

He was _wrong._

He was wrong. Odhran was wrong, of course, but more than that _Dutch_ was wrong. He’d been wrong this whole time. nausea seeped through him, threatening to relieve him of all he’d had to drink in that past hour. 

What they’d done to Arthur— what _had_ they done to Arthur? He was told they’d roughed him up a bit, that was all. That they’d thrown Arthur into a pond to shock him and gave him a few licks for good measure. And he'd _believed_ them. But to hear Odhran retell it, to hear him describe the very scantest pieces of what he’d done, to hear the _pleasure_ in his voice as he spoke so casually of torturing his boy as if discussing particularly fine weather, to think of their hands on Arthur, it made Dutch _sick_ — an incurable kind of sick. The kind of sick that only comes when one finds their entire world toppled over, the blinders he’d worn ripped away. He was wrong. He was wrong. He was _wrong,_ and he’d been wrong, and so long as he sat here he would continue to be wrong. 

He’d fucked up. Irreparably, unfathomably, fucked up. He’d been so distracted by greed, by the promise that he _could_ be something, that he completely forgot he already _was_ something; he was supposed to take care of Arthur, and he'd failed. And now— now— 

Oh, but he couldn’t just _leave_ . He couldn’t walk away, not with Odhran in possession of a small fortune that soon, too, would be in Dutch’s grasp. He couldn’t just leave, knowing his share, his _work_ , his _planning_ , would only enrich the lives of these bastards. Dutch looked around the small camp; how many of these men had laid hands on his boy? How much would _they_ get paid for it, all because Dutch couldn’t see what was right in front of him? How many of them would prosper because he’d blatantly _betrayed_ his family in pursuit of a payday?

None of them, he decided. 

He pulled his Schofield in one clean movement and put a bullet through Odhran’s forehead.

_Not a single goddamned one._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning my precious little lemon meringues! 
> 
> It's pi day! Celebrate with your favorite flavor of pie, or your favorite type of math, or neither, cause who am I, a cop? 
> 
> Also, Odhran's dead :D 
> 
> I wanted to take a sec to thank you all for being so sweet. Your comments have been like this little teeny light, and every time I get the notification I get all smiley. It's embarrassing. 
> 
> I'll see every one of you lovely little pumpkins and peaches on Tuesday! ♡♡♡


	25. II. VIII

**1877**

He spotted the kid again. In fact, he’d done nothing _but_ spot the kid; the town was small enough that they were bound to run into the same people more than once but the fact was that _every_ time he turned around, the boy was there. Watching. Hosea had played dumb at first before dipping down to annoyance. 

“Just leave it the hell alone, Dutch. Ain’t none of your business.”

But he couldn’t just leave it. Not when that kid was so gaunt and sickly, so bruised and scraped and miserable. He had to do something— it was his duty as a decent human being. 

…. the kid certainly didn’t make it easy though. 

The first time he called out, the boy spooked like a wild horse, taking off through the streets, unseen for days. The second time was largely the same, even as Dutch spoke in the softest, gentlest tone he could muster. It didn’t work, though, and again the boy vanished. Hosea chastised him for wasting time they didn’t have; Dutch brushed him off. 

This time, though. This time, he’d waited until the night bled through the town, leaving the streets bathed in lamplight. Street rats like him loved the cover of nightfall; much like common criminals, they learned quick that there was opportunity in darkness. Dutch preferred to do his work in the daytime but he couldn’t fault those who took advantage of the natural cover of night. 

He waited in the alley next to the saloon. Drunk fools stumbling home after sundown were easy pickings. He felt clever; he assumed this is how hunters felt, laying in wait. He never was one for setting traps like this, but surely this was for a just cause. 

He hardly had to wait an hour, hat tipped low over his face, before the boy came skittering down the road, ducking into the shadows. Dutch opted to observe for a moment in silence, watching the practiced ease with which the boy sidled between the horses hitched just outside the saloon, not so much as spooking the beasts, lifting odds and ends from the saddlebags. It couldn’t have been much; Dutch had done the same in his early years, he knew those were slim pickings at best. It was safe though; smart. Some itch of pride lingered there as he watched the kid work.

When a pair of drunk men stumbled by, he ducked into a shadow, out of sight. When the men had gone, the lad continued down the line of horses, unwavering. Slowly, unbothered, as though he’d done this a thousand times. His hands dipped into the saddlebag of the last horse, and Dutch took the opportunity. 

He wasn’t known for stealth; that's not to say he couldn’t be sneaky, but it just wasn’t his forte. However, under the cover of night, with the rowdiness of the saloon to dampen his footsteps, he managed to get right up on the kid without drawing his attention.

“You did good,” Dutch said, trying very hard to keep his voice low.

But it wasn’t enough. The boy damn near jumped out of his skin, whirling backwards and stumbling hard into the horse behind him. The steeds all kicked up a fuss, squealing and stomping at the disturbance. Dutch recoiled slightly at the raw, abject terror that flashed across the kid’s face. It was that same look he always wore when he saw Dutch. 

On instinct, Dutch reached out to steady him. 

Another in a long line of mistakes. 

Lord, did that boy fight. He fought, and bit, and spit, and kicked, at one point fumbling with a worn-down gun before ducking from Dutch’s gentle grasp and tearing off yet again, his breath loud, desperate gasps. In his escape, he’d dropped the old, worn-out satchel he’d been using to collect his ill-gotten goods. 

Dutch stood and watched him go, staring after him a while longer. He’d never seen anyone look so _frightened—_ never had anyone fight him quite so hard. More than that, though, he wondered where the hell a kid that little had gotten a bruise so nasty as the one that consumed his left eye. 

His guts churned with what he could only place as grief. Dutch left the abandoned satchel a ways down in the alley, hoping the boy might find it again. He kept the gun though; empty as it was, a boy his age, with his temper, definitely would find trouble a lot quicker with something like that around. Hell, he was almost impressed the kid had tried to draw on him at all. But if he was willing to pull a gun on a man so clearly armed as Dutch, who knows who else he’d threaten?

He considered it a favor and figured he’d return it if the kid ever asked for it back. 

________

“Did you find him?” Hosea asked upon his return, quirking an eyebrow but not looking up from his paper.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dutch bit back quickly, hoping Hosea might drop the subject; he’d warned Dutch not to involve himself any further.

Hosea let out a sharp breath, “I’m not an idiot, Dutch, I know what you’ve been up to. This is the third goddamned night in a row. You get what you wanted yet, or do you plan on _catching_ the damn thing?”

Dutch rolled his eyes as he peeled off his coat and hat, hanging them nearby.

“He’s not a _thing_ , he’s a boy. And he’s got potential, I saw him rifling through saddle bags like it was second nature, no hesitation. I ain’t fixin’ to keep him or nothin— he just… You ain’t seen it. He’s bones, and hurt all over. A child, stomped upon by society. I figure if we ain’t out to help people like him, what the hell are we doin?”

At this, Hosea glanced up at him, an unfathomable look in his eye. 

“He made it this long, he can make it longer. We have a _job_ to do, Dutch, this ain’t the time for chasin’ kids around.”

The job. Robbing the mayor, who, as they’d discovered, ran a manor packed to the brim with unsettled servants, caring for his obscene wealth while starving in the streets. It seemed… inconsequential at the moment. Pointless. 

“He was so scared, Hosea,” Dutch added in a horrified whisper, “Someone hurt him bad.” 

“People get hurt. It happens. He’ll either make it or he won’t and either way it ain’t our goddamned business, so you’d best leave it be.”

Dutch curled his hands into tight fists as he shook off his boots. He couldn’t bear to look at Hosea; not with the thoughts that were rumbling through his head.Dutch found himself consumed in the memory; of his days as a scrawny little shit with more temper than sense, nearly as emaciated as that boy. He recalled struggling, fighting, hurting, and very clearly remembered how the world passed him by, each certain that _he_ was not their 'goddamned business'. The best he could manage by way of retort was a bitter:

“You didn’t leave _me_.”

The pair didn’t speak any longer that night. Hosea turned in early, as the man was prone to do, and did so wordlessly. Dutch, however, stayed up all night listening to the sound of rain beat upon the window, wondering after that boy who fought like the devil had him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning, my dear little shrimplets! 
> 
> A blast from the past! Dutch finally confronts Arthur, and Arthur predictably freaks out and runs off, because of COURSE he does- stranger danger! 
> 
> A quick little message for all my regular commenters: I adore you all and I hope you're having a marvellous day! And for my readers who might be a little more shy: I adore you all and I hope you're having a marvellous day, and also you should come say hi in the comments :D 
> 
> Okay friends, I will see you all on Thursday! ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ Be well!


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